


Second Darkness: Transcript

by Isada



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anthropomorphic, Campaign Playthrough, Coworkers - Freeform, Drow, Elves, F/F, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Hook-Up, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Bondage, Original Character(s), Physical Abuse, Prison, Protective Siblings, Sexual Assault, Slavery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Torture, casino - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-07-07 17:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 54
Words: 118,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isada/pseuds/Isada
Summary: This is a transcript of our playthrough of Second Darkness, the Paizo Adventure Path (some tags for current session). We were cocky dumbasses who kept splitting the party and dying in the beginning. I play Racaille and later Khein starting in Endless Night.Shadow in the Sky: 1-17Children of the Void: 18-28Armageddon Echo: 29-39Endless Night: 40-46A Memory of Darkness: 47-51Descent into Midnight: 52-54





	1. Log 1

DM  
Just inside the main doors of the Gold Goblin, two barely-clad beauties wearing man-sized bat wings, horns, and tails play the parts of incubus and succubus. Both employees cheerfully register contestants for the gambling hall’s tournament and process entry fees. 

Armed guards stand nearby on either side of an immense treasure chest. Each patron’s entry fee is added with a hearty clink of coin on coin. The guards not only protect the money, but prevent the less sober admirers from copping a feel off the costumed customer service.

Beyond the registration table is the hall’s game floor. Dozens  
of gamblers, bouncers, and waiters dressed as incubi and succubi, mill about the room, wandering amid tables offering various games  
while dealers shuffle cards, roll dice, and spin wheels.

In the center of the chamber is a short podium atop which sits a massive gold chest affixed to the floor by similarly gaudy chains. On either side of it stands a bare-chested bouncer, their muscled chests glistening with either oil, sweat, or both. Each stands with a naked scimitar of prodigious size tucked through  
their waistband. 

High above them, from the hall’s velvet-draped ceiling, hangs a brass birdcage within which crouches a small, bat-winged, pointy-tailed devilish creature that sulks as it gazes over the room and occasionally rattles the bars with an apathetic threat of escape.

Racaille  
A genderfluid Chelaxian of middling height and build winks an onyx-black eye at every incubi, succubi, gambler, and bouncer on his way to the roulette table. Despite the debts to Lymas Smeed looming over his head and staring daggers into his back, there’s a pep in his leather-clad step and a bounce in his shiny black hair.

Racaille leans a forearm on the edge of the table and tosses ten gold to the croupier with his lucky wink and trademark grin.

“Put it all on twelve would ya, mate?”

Tiff  
A dark-skinned half-elf stops just before the devilish creature’s cage. They give the air a good sniff and grimace, their garnet brown eyes wincing at the tell-tale fumes of alcohol and unwashed body.

Whatever. Tiff is down to their last handful of coin and word on the street says Saul Vancaskerkin’s hiring. They casually scan the crowd for the owner, a fringe of snow white hair brushing their sharp cheeks.

Lure  
“Magic, magic, anywhere?” mumbles a short, slight man from the darkest corner of the gambling hall.

His rose red eyes glow and fade with the spell, their color a dead giveaway to his unsavory demonic heritage--as though the goatish horns poking through his tousled blond hair aren’t enough. He’d missed his only chance to blend by wearing decidedly drabber and more clothes than the waiters.

Lure shuts his eyes to reset for a hot Riddleport second. The Cyphers wouldn’t care about his heritage. They’re magic first and blood...hopefully not at all.

Geleafa  
None of the waiters appear particularly evil or outsider-ly. The same can’t be said for the creature in the cage over the gambling floor or the glowing-eyed fellow casting magic from the shadows.

Geleafa, a genderfluid, blue-skinned samsaran with pointed ears that knife through her straight black locks sets her cards down on the gaming table. Her apologetic smile doesn’t quite reach her solid white eyes.

“Sorry, but I just remembered that I don’t know how to play golem. Would you mind if I gave my seat to someone else and just...watched?” she shrugs, already standing up.

DM: @Racaille  
“You’re the boss,” slurs the croupier, who’s neither drunk nor sleep-deprived enough to be removed from their post but is clearly trying.

They spin the wheel by the withered head of a ghoul mounted like a knob upon it. Absol-un-fucking-believably, the ghoul’s head winds down to a dizzying stop, nose facing due Twelve.

“Holy Hells,” croaks the ghoul’s head.

“Holy Hells,” croaks the croupier, blinking and rubbing their eyes. “That’s uh...one hundred platinum.”

Their fingers tremble as they hand over the coin in a little velvet baggy monogrammed with two golden G’s. It’s a miracle they don’t drop it, given the weight.

DM: @Tiff  
“If you’re looking for that rolling ball of sleaze, Master of the House Saul Van-Sleaze-erkin himself,” gripes the horned, winged, and tailed creature in the cage, “you’re not gonna find him. Plenty of other sleazes to whiff on to your heart’s content, though.”

DM: @Lure  
Unfortunately or fortunately for Lure, there’s magic literally everywhere. The gambling hall is awash with a flood of spells ranging from minor, everyday protective charms to disturbingly strong necromancy at the roulette table.

DM: @Geleafa  
“Sure, but all buy-ins are final,” says the dealer, sweeping Geleafa’s coin off the table with one hand and waving her off with the other.

An elf with silver hair and bronze skin shifts soundlessly past Geleafa to take her seat. Indigo tattoos whorl down the length of his left arm. His violet eyes barely graze her, but in that one second, she registers unchecked hostility.

Racaille  
“Cheers, mate,” winks Racaille, tipping an imaginary hat as he swipes the baggy off the croupier.

That would do real nicely...at another gaming table. Racaille sniggers and heads off toward the golem-card gambling. He freezes in mid-stride.

That elf eye-killing the blue-skinned patron is giving him a weird vibe. He rolls back into step but lets his hands swing a little closer to the friends tucked away at either side, a short sword on his right and a dagger on his left.

Tiff  
Tiff raises their narrowed gaze to the grouchy, impish fellow swinging caged from the rafters.

“Thanks, I will,” they reply in complete and quiet deadpan. “What’s up with you?”

Lure  
The gambling hall’s magic aura onslaught is a stake straight through the temples. Lure grunts and stumbles back against the hard wood of the corner.

This was a mistake. He shouldn’t be here. If he couldn’t handle the magic in a gods-forsaken gambling hall, how was he supposed to handle working for a gods-damned magical order? He’s just not Cypher material.

Lure pushes himself out of the corner and into the fray of milling bodies. It’s time to get the Hells out of here.

Geleafa  
Geleafa steps back from the rude elf, blinking owlishly. It’s been a while since she’s gotten such a hostile reaction--never, if we’re counting. But the distraction lasts only as long as it takes for her eyes to flick past the tall man’s tattooed shoulder.

There goes the spell-caster, wading into the crowd and looking perturbed about it. She heads after him, angling body to lead with her left shoulder. Her right hand moves up her back toward a black-wood longbow.

DM  
As the purple-skinned imp stares gap-mouthed at Tiff gathering his tongue, several gamehall employees enter. They carry torches shaped like pitchforks skewering burning heads made of straw and cloth. They light several large braziers, giving the hall a more infernal hue. 

A hush falls over the gathered crowd blocking Lure’s passage. A short man climbs to the central podium, accompanied by two “succubi,” and stands before the gold, chain-shrouded chest. He wears a formal suit, and his thinning black hair is slicked back. His left arm ends in a stump just above the wrist, and affixed to it is a bronze cap from which protrudes an oddly shaped key. 

You concluded with a hundred percent certainty that this is Saul  
Vancaskerkin, the owner of the Gold Goblin and host of the  
tournament. He bows before the crowd and clears his throat.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Gold Goblin Gambling Hall and  
your chance to cheat the Devil and win back not only your soul but all of his gold as well,” he says, patting the large chest behind him. “I hope you found your reception by the Devil’s lovely temptations suitably entertaining.”

This is met by a general applause of hoots and laughter. The hostile elf, who hasn’t turned an inch away from the card table, offers a noncommittal grunt.

“Let’s take this moment to thank Old Scratch himself for attending this event. Not only did he loan us these lovely, unhallowed angels, but he also emptied the deepest vaults of Hell itself to provide the gold for this tournament.”

Saul flourishes both hands toward the imp in the birdcage over Tiff. At the sudden attention of the entire gambling hall, Old Scratch flies into a flurry of theatrics, banging the cage bars, spitting, howling, and screaming vile epithets in Infernal at all assembled.

The crowd hoots even louder. As their din dies down, Vancaskerkin continues.

“Of course, he plans on replacing what he loses in gold with your soul--”

An explosion of fireworks erupts out of a brazier, shaking the hall to its roots and rafters. The sudden burst blinds Racaille and Lure.

Tiff and Geleafa may be the only two to catch four strongly built Taldans drawing their swords. A fifth roars to her comrades words tinged with magic.

“All right! Now you lot drop to the ground. Don’t try anything  
stupid and we’ll try and let you live.”

Tiff  
“Hold that thought,” Tiff mutters up at Old Scratch, cracking their neck to either side.

They go straight for the ringleader, coming in swinging with two cloth-bound fists.

DM  
Tiff’s first blow goes wide. The second hits like a fucking truck. The woman goes down with a sick crack from her skull.

The four hulks remaining don’t notice. They’re too busy threatening the bouncers away from the chest with the business ends of their blades.

About half the explosion-blinded patrons have dropped to the ground as ordered. The other half panic. They shriek, tear at, and trample over each other in their directionless scramble to get out. But one tall, typically pale Chelaxian with a pointed black beard slinks toward the center of the room.

Not that Racaille or Lure can see any of this.

Racaille  
It’s amazing how fast getting blinded in a stampeding crowd will take the fight out of someone. Racaille sits this one out for the moment, focusing instead on keeping his feet amidst all the pushing and shoving.

Geleafa  
Firing into a crowd is never the best option, but a longbow is the only heat Geleafa is packing. She nocks a blunted arrow into position, her eyes fixed on the bearded slinker. If her intuition were off, at least the arrow wouldn’t deal lethal damage.

DM: @Geleafa  
Geleafa’s intuition may not be off, but her aim sure is. Her arrow lodges square in the buttcheek of a patron who’d dropped by her feet. At least their scream is drowned out by the surrounding din.

The hostile elf shakes his head at her from his unmoved seat at the golem table.

Lure  
Despite the deprivation of his sight and overload of the rest of his senses, Lure senses a disturbance in the force(s).

“Balls,” he mutters, summoning a protective coat of mage armor over his drabbery.

Tiff  
Tiff doesn’t stick around long enough to hear the ringleader hit the bodies on the floor. They charge at the bearded slinker.

DM  
Geleafa and Tiff’s target proves much more than the bearded slinker that meets the eye. He dodges Tiff’s first fist and parries the second with a wicked-sharp sickle.

“Not today, half-bitch,” he growls, slicing a bloody trail through Tiff’s arm.

Racaille’s sight return just in time to catch their bloody spray splattering him in the face. Lure has no such luck/unluck.

Racaille  
Ever the gentlefolk, Racaille spits over his shoulder. Then shifts behind the sickle-man and stabs him in the back.

DM: @Racaille  
Or attempts to. Somehow, even standing directly behind this guy, Racaille still manages to fuck up a simple backstab. Both of his blades plunge directly into the legs and ass-cheeks of the patrons underfoot.

Geleafa  
Geleafa pretends she didn’t just see a shame to knock hers out of the water and nocks up another arrow.

DM: @Geleafa  
She shoots. She scores! The blunted tip bashes the sickle-man under his sickle-arm. He grunts in the presumable pain of snapped ribs but keeps his feet, snarling.

Lure  
Lure can’t see, but he hears the grunt and snarl and remembers that the hulks were definitely wielding swords. In the heat of the moment, he acts before the doubts come crashing home.

“Can we just lose the weapons, please?”

DM  
Lure’s question sets off a magical chain reaction. The metal sickle in the sickle-man’s hand catches flame, burning red hot. The sickle-man screams, attempting to drop it, but his skin adheres to the blazing metal.

The flames grow, whooshing up into his screaming face. The scream dies. The sickle-man falls to the floor, face melted.

Lure’s sight returns in time for him to see the four hulks, finally realizing that both ringleaders have gone down, tuck their swords and tails and run out of the gambling hall with the last of the panicked crowd.

The gambling hall doesn’t quite fall silent with the other half of the patrons still whimpering and/or screaming in pain underfoot, but there’s a stillness in the air. You can smell a change of fortune in the air.

The sliced and slashed up guards of the Gold Goblin throw down their swords.

“We. Quit.”

They stomp out of hall, followed by several dishevelled incubi and succubi. Saul Vancaskerkin can only stare, his mouth letting in the flies. Overhead, Old Scratch breaks into a knee-slapping, wing-flapping cackle.


	2. Log 2

Lure  
As the drumming in the tiefling’s slightly pointed ears dies down, he takes in the state of the bodies of the floor: three with bloody hindquarters, one with a cracked skull, and one--Lure gags, bile rising up his throat.

Ohp...it’s coming out. Lure doubles over, apologizing to the grounded patrons between hacks.

Tiff  
The half-elf steps out of range of the spew. They crack one eye up at the cackling imp. At least someone here is having a good time.

Racaille  
“I take it the tournament’s cancelled?” asks the Chelaxian, taking a similar step back.

Sure, he’d already bagged more than enough to keep him afloat for a fortnight or one very hard day’s night, but Racaille’s slightly annoyed that he’s been robbed of the chance to push his luck.

Geleafa  
The samsaran wades into the mess if she must en route to the two would-be robbers. It couldn’t be worse on her boots than the rest of the Riddleport street fluids.

Geleafa lays a hand on either of the robbers. She’s not feeling up to healing their hard-earned wounds at the moment, but she’ll keep them from dying if it’s as dire as it looks.

DM  
“Yeah, no, everybody go home,” says Saul, only to throw both palms up at the four of you. “Except for you four!”

The patrons rise, bickering and enraged. They loudly demand refunds as they throw their chips into the placating grins of Saul and his few remaining employees.

The tatted, silver-haired elf is the last to leave as the only one to have properly queued. His violet eyes take in all four of you, leaving Geleafa for last. Where there was once near-murderous hostility, there’s now only murderous suspicion. He casts in his chips without a word.

Saul takes the newfound silence for all its worth, poking his head out past the side of the elf.

“On behalf of the Gold Goblin, I’d like to give you my most royal thanks. If you’re not busy, how about we have a chat over drinks? On the house, of course.”

Lure  
Lure, disturbed by that elf looking right through him, takes a moment to realize one fourth of Saul’s question is directed at him.

“Uh yeah, sure,” he answers despite not being able to remember the question.

He’s pretty sure there was mention of free food. That alone wouldn’t have hooked him, but the faster he gets away from that purple stare, the better.

Tiff  
Tiff scrapes the nearest chair out from under a table and plops down.

“I’ll take a stout water and a platter of whatever you’ve got in the pantry.”

Racaille  
Racaille follows the business-forward half-elf’s lead, fixing them with his trademark grin and luckiest wink as he plops down into the seat beside them.

“I’ll have what they’re having, only make that water a scotch and that mystery platter a fruit and cheese plate, meat optional but appreciated.”

He steeples his fingers under his clean-shaven chin, pausing to add, “My name’s Racaille, by the by. Who might you mates be?”

Geleafa  
“Geleafa,” says the samsaran, rising from the over the unconscious but no longer dying bodies. “Nice to meet you.”

Her solid white eyes flick pointedly at the leaving elf, but her closed smile remains fixed on her face. She wipes her palms on her breeches before joining the others at the table.

“I’ll have...elfwine, if you have it,” she says, her voice fading to a murmur.

DM: @Geleafa  
A muscle seems to tense in the elf’s shoulders on his way out, but it could easily be a trick of the gambling hall’s strategically flickering light.

Lure  
Lure shuffles toward the table in a roundabout way to get to the seat furthest from the others. He scrapes it out as quietly as he can.

“A second on the scotch--er, I mean a double. And, uh, my name’s Lure.”

Tiff  
“Tiff.”

Tiff takes in Racaille’s overly familiar mannerisms without a flicker of emotion. They have to conserve their energy for more important things. Like eating.

Racaille  
“Well met, well met, Geleafa, Lure, Tiff,” says Racaille, his grin growing with each name on his lips.

They’re not the table-mates he’d expect to find at a gambling hall--a gentle, polite, but somehow fake blue-skinned mate, a nervous tiefling who’d literally melted the face off a man mere minutes ago, and a tight-lipped, death-fisted half-elf. They’re better.

Geleafa  
Geleafa’s gaze drifts from the elf’s back to meet Racaille’s during his appraisal. Her small smile never wavers. Whatever the rakish Chelaxian is hoping to find, he won’t.

DM  
“Snap to it, then,” Saul snaps at the four remaining employees, who’re still sporting their dazed, placating smiles.

Two drag the two fallen bodies away while the other two drag the chest of gold off. They return in starts and stops with the food and drinks you’ve requested.

Saul comes around to sit down after taking Old Scratch’s cage down and wheeling the imp off to some darker corner of the hall. He toasts your bravery and resourcefulness before rolling out the valuables found on the would-be robbers onto your dining table: a wand of shocking grasp, a scroll of pyrotechnics, a scroll of  
shrink item, a familiar sickle, masterwork leather armor, enchanted bracers of armor, a spellbook, a belt pouch with 50 gold pieces.

“Let those villains’ just desserts be your...desserts.”

Lure  
“Uh, thanks,” says Lure when nobody else makes a move.

He holds his breath and picks up the wand, scrolls, and spellbook as gingerly as a clutter of wet cats. His face grows hot as his oxygen dwindles. If he’s being honest, it’d be a relief to just pass out right now.

Racaille  
“Nice haul,” says Racaille, shaking off the stupor of one too many shots of scotch.

He helps himself to both pieces of armor. And they say beggars can’t be choosers.

Tiff  
Tiff slides the sickle over to Geleafa. They’ve got no need of weapons. They’ve got no objection to the gold, though, and sweep that up off the table.

Geleafa  
Geleafa picks up the sickle and holds it up to the light with a bemused smile. Quaint, but it might come in handy against some evil outsider getting overly familiar. She tucks it away on her belt.

DM  
Saul introduces himself as a former, retired gang leader from the old days of Riddleport, but states matter-of-factly that his life of crime was far from lucrative. 

“In fact, it cost me my health, my fortune, my family, and even my own left hand,” he barks, pounding his metal prosthetic key on the tabletop for emphasis. 

With his wife dead, his sons exiled, and the bulk of his fortune wiped out, he took what meager funds he could scrape together and purchased the Gold Goblin, a once-famous gambling hall that had fallen on hard times. 

“Now, I might be too old to relocate or turn back to a life of crime, but I’ve tried to turn a profit here at the Goblin. Ah, speaking of crime, I’ve bosses up to here trying to sink my last ship. That pair who tried to rob me just then--they’re known on the street for contracting out to any crimelord willing to spit in their general direction. And...I get it.”

Saul, too, is desperate enough to consider throwing himself at the mercy of a protection racket.

“All’s that stopping me is I hate the underworld more than it hates me. But I think you might be just what I’m looking for. I saw you take out those spineless mercs,” he grins at the memory. “What’d you say to partnering up?”

He explains that they would work directly for him and assist  
in the day-to-day running of the gambling hall, serving as  
dealers, bouncers, croupiers, or greeters but that these roles would be covers for the actual services they’ll provide Saul as  
bodyguards, messengers, and consultants.

“Room, board, a regularly salary of ten gold a week, and to top it off, a cut of the hall’s weekly profits--now how’s that for a deal?”

Lure  
Too good to be true, honestly. It’s more than Lure had hoped to get with the Cyphers, and even better, he isn’t being asked to prove himself as a mage, a sorceror.

“Wait, do we have to wear the costumes?”

Racaille  
It’s a good question, but it’s not the most pressing question. Besides, the more people who’d see Racaille’s banging bod, the better. No, the real question is, why stop there?

“Twenty a week.”

Tiff  
This is exactly what Tiff’s been looking for, and if they can sweeten the deal, all the better. They set down their tankard of water. Tiff stands by Racaille’s side and backs up his bargaining with their most deadpan stare, arms crossed over their lean, muscular form.

“Twenty or nothing.”

Geleafa  
Geleafa would almost rather not give Racaille the satisfaction of aiding the bargaining effort. As one raised in a monastery, she’d long been turned off from the pursuit of coin for coin’s sake--greed, they call it.

These three, however, might be her future coworkers. It wouldn’t look good to present a non-united front.

She swallows her sigh and stands up as well.

“To be fair, I’m not even looking for employment at the moment. Perhaps you can change my mind.”

DM  
Saul throws up his hands.

“Ok, fine, twenty it is. And no costumes outside of the standard uniform--unless we have another event day--deal?”

Lure  
“Fair enough,” says Lure, standing a little too late.

At the very least, the odds of another event day so soon after this one’s catastrophic failure seem slim to none.

Racaille  
They could’ve gotten more. Racaille’s sure of it, but Lure’s already caved. Better not trample the poor tiefling--he’s anxious enough as it is.

Racaille beams at Saul victoriously.

“Twenty it is.”

Tiff  
Tiff jerks their chin in an approving nod without so much as an accompanying grunt. They sit back down and finish the mystery bread and stew in front of them.

Geleafa  
Geleafa’s twinge of regret at the way things went down manifests as a slight disgust toward Racaille and the similarly money-minded Tiff. But her smile never falters. These are, after all, her coworkers.

DM  
You sign your contracts, and as newly inducted employees of the Gold Goblin, you’re welcomed to clean your own dishes. Saul similarly “welcomes” the floor manager Larur Feldin to give you a whirlwind tour of the rooms and floors. The soft-spoken floor manager is a gender neutral half-orc with a whip-thin build and flinty gray eyes capable of spotting a card shark at fifty paces.

The last of the rooms, of course, is the private apartment you’ll be sharing with each other. It’s a comfortably furnished chamber  
With three bunk beds shoved against the walls next to a pair of wide wardrobes. A small table with three chairs is pushed into one corner, and two overstuffed chairs sit on a wolfskin rug before the hearth. The entrance to a small privy is covered by a thin curtain.

Larur procures four identical iron key from an interior vest pocket.

“Will that be all, or do you have any questions?” they ask, tucking the pencil of their clipboard behind one pointed green ear.

Tiff  
“Nope. Thanks for the tour.”

Tiff snaps up their key and strides straight into the apartment. They start disrobing for bed immediately, throwing their athletic robes onto their chosen top bunk.

Racaille  
“Nothing comes to mind,” lies Racaille, “but thanks for the tour, mate.”

Rather than go immediately to bed, he walks back the way they came under the erroneous-or-not assumption that the “free room and board” clause meant “open bar.”

DM: @Racaille  
Larur’s steely eyes narrow to gray slits, but they don’t move to stop Racaille, giving him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Geleafa  
Geleafa leans in toward Larur as she takes her key.

“You might need to put the curb stomp on that one,” she whispers.

She’s said her piece. It’s time for bed.

DM: @Geleafa  
Larur’s mouth tightens to a grim line. They give Geleafa the slightest nod before pushing the final key into Lure’s hands.

“Apologies, the time for questions is over. Racaille! Excuse me, Racaille!”

The half-orc sprints down the hall to round in front of the Chelaxian. He receives an earful about the only “board” being what food is served up at the breakfast, lunch, and dinner buffets in the staff room. The rest, including the bar, is sadly off-limits.

Lure  
It’s not like Lure had any questions of particular worth anyhow. He turns away from the hall lecture with a wide-eyed cringe and slinks into the apartment. He shuts the door as quietly as he can behind him. And is immediately met with the sight of the undressing Tiff.

Lure dives as casually as he can while fully clothed into the bottom bunk furthest from Tiff. He yanks the cover over his burning face and rolls to face the wall.

“Goodnight,” he mutters into the fabric.


	3. Log 3

DM  
After the day’s excitement, sleep comes easily that night. It leaves just as easily.

In the darkness before dawn, your newfound apartment dips and lurches on its foundation like a skiff at sea. Its wooden frame moans grievously. The tops of the bunkbeds wobble and knock into the walls. The bottoms screech against the floorboards.

Seconds later, dust ceases to fall from the ceiling. The Gold Goblin, as well as the greater area of Riddleport, has stopped shaking. There’s nothing left in the dark but a ringing silence.

Racaille  
Racaille stays in bed, frozen with his eyes wide open, until his slightly ragged breath can pierce the ringing silence. That was an earthquake. He knows it even though he’s never felt one before--because there are no earthquakes in Riddleport.

“That fucking Blot,” he pants venemously. “It’s gotta be.”

Tiff  
Tiff sits up in bed, resting their head on their knees. Racaille’s right. Ever since that thing had appeared about a month ago, strange things had been happening in the city. Stranger than usual, anyway.

The Blot, as they called it, would sometimes change size and shape but generally hung out over the gulf and harbor attracting all manners of rumors and bad omens. Tiff themself avoided walking in its shadow.

Tiff flops back down onto the bed. Their white hair splays out in an angry halo around their passive face.

“I guess if we wake up dead tomorrow, we’ll know who to blame. Night.”

Lure  
Factually, Tiff was spewing pure nonsense. Everybody knew the Blot was just an “atmospheric shadow.” That’s what the cyphermage Argentus Blakely discovered and the whole reason why academics called it Blakely’s Shadow.

But all of Lure’s facts and blankets couldn’t shake the chill creeping along the underside of his skin. He shut his eyes against the winding grain of the bedboards overhead. Even the deeper darkness couldn’t promise a return to sleep.

Geleafa  
Geleafa lays stock-still in her bed. Although she’d never have admitted it, she had to agree with Tiff and Racaille. The Blot may’ve looked like nothing more than a dark cloud, but the wind had about as much effect on it as it did upon the moon and stars. What’s more, birds and other flying animals avoided the very air under it.

“Good night,” she said, her voice as hollow and empty as a carcass stripped to the bone.

DM  
The rest of the night is long, but no longer full of terrors. Morning comes quietly to Riddleport--not a bird’s chirp in earshot. The silence is quickly rectified by rattling carts, street hawkers, and dockworkers.

Larur is the only member of the staff in the staff room when you come down for breakfast. The half-orc informs you over the line of their clipboard that your training begins this afternoon just before the Gold Goblin’s official opening. Until then, the morning is yours.

“Lunch is served promptly at twelve whether you’re here or not. If you’re late to training, however, consider your pay docked. Do you have any questions?”

Racaille  
“When I have a question, you’ll be the first to know,” says Racaille, applying a couple of avocado slices to his hard, brown toast.

He drizzles balsamic vinegar on top for good measure. It’ll go nicely with the black coffee steaming from his mug.

“So, anyone want to go shopping/item-seling with me?” he asks at everyone save Larur.

Geleafa  
Geleafa stirs milk and honey into her cardamom spiced tea. She taps the spoon as quietly as she can against the rim of the teacup.

“Thanks, but I have an errand to run myself.”

It’s something she’s been avoiding ever since she came to Riddleport despite it being the very thing that brought her here all the way from Zi Ha. Now that she’s employed, there’s no telling when she’ll get another chance to shore up the loose end.

She sighs under her breath and sips her tea.

Tiff  
The food in Tiff’s mouth doesn’t stop them from replying.

“I could use a dash through a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.”

They’d piled their tray high with scones, bacon, and the nearest fruit without bothering with plates, bowls, or utensils. They are, however, considerate enough to use a cup for their water as opposed to the community jug.

Lure  
“Uh, me too, I guess,” says Lure between sips of his scalding green tea.

He hadn’t meant to make it quite so hot, but thinking about the Blot and the earthquake had kept him up all night. The others had no idea how lucky they were that he’d gone to bed fully clothed.

Racaille  
“Excellent!” says Racaille, clapping his hands.

He gives nothing away about their change of plans until after Geleafa has left breakfast. The others may not have sensed it, but there was definitely something about Geleafa’s “errand” that seemed off. Maybe it has something to do with her strange interaction with that one elf last night.

“I hope the two of you don’t have your hearts set on shopping because it’ll have to wait. Our new friend Geleafa’s up to something--as someone who’s always up to something myself, trust me--I know the signs. What do you say we...shadow her for a bit?”

Geleafa  
Racaille’s just fucking lucky that Geleafa’s too preoccupied with her errand to sense Racaille’s intentions before she leaves the room. She thanks Larur for breakfast on her way out.

DM: @Geleafa  
“No need to thank me--I merely scrounged up the pretty much untouched leftovers from last night’s tournament,” they reply, though the ghost of a smile hovers over their mouth.

Tiff  
“Yeah, no, my heart was definitely not set on shopping,” says Tiff, piling up a third tray.

If anything, their heart’s set on placing their solid food items just so to keep their oatmeal from sliding off the flat edges.

Lure  
Lure’s mouth twitches and it’s not the sleep deprivation. Snooping on their coworker seems exactly how to start their working relations on the wrong foot. So does telling Geleafa about Racaille’s plan. As does not-telling Geleafa even if he doesn’t help Racaille. Fuck.

Lure pushes his tea away to drop his head in his hands. The only partially decent option is going to keep his coworkers from possibly killing each other.

“Yeah,” he sighs, lifting his face up from the tabletop, “I’m in.”

DM  
Racaille, Tiff, and Lure surreptitiously follow Geleafa to Riddleport’s most notoriously downtrodden and crime-infested choice of neighborhood. She disappears down a muck-smeared alley.

There, sandwiched between a derelict wainwright’s shop and a bakery, stands a dilapidated tenement. A crooked belltower rises from the building’s rear, and a half-dozen grease-smeared, cracked, and boarded-over windows gaze out from walls that might have once been white. A small sign hangs over the building’s battered oak front doors: “St. Caspieran’s Salvation—All Welcome.”

Tiff  
Sure, the sun’s out and shining, but it’s no reason to give their position away to Geleafa. Tiff steps into one of the many shadows afforded by the ally and presses their back flat to the grimy wall.

Racaille  
Though Racaille is the leader apparent of the mission, he’s not one to dismiss a good idea just because it came from a follower. He takes Tiff’s lead and presses into the shadows just in front of the half-elf.

Geleafa  
Geleafa can’t hear anything over the pounding in her ears. She keeps her eyes fixed on the flagstone steps ahead.

DM: @Geleafa  
The steps climb to an open foyer hung with a pair of weather-beaten double doors. Two smaller doors flank the main  
entrance, both covered with graffiti. The southern door has a sign that reads “Flophouse: upstairs and take a left.” The word “left” is crossed out, and scrawled next to it is the word “hike.” 

The other door has a homemade sign that reads, “All rooms taken.”

Lure  
It seems safe to assume Geleafa isn’t here to book a room--not that that seems enough to satisfy Tiff and Racaille’s curiosity. Lure rubs his temples and follows them from the shadows up the flagstone steps.

DM  
The main doors open to the old church proper, which can no longer be called just a church. The stench of mud and sweat mingles with the odor of vinegar and cabbage soup to pervade what is now a pungent lobby. 

Scratched tables and benches provide seating for resting vagrants, conversation, or eating simple meals. In the corner stagnates an old font with a dented tin cup tied to it by a frayed length of twine.

The north wing now holds a soup kitchen. Two stained rectory tables dominate this gutted hall, crowded around with a collection of mismatched and poorly repaired chairs. Large steel pots filled with thin gray stew weigh upon both tables, along with stacks of cracked wooden bowls.

The last few churchy remnants of St. Caspieran’s lie west, straight ahead. The modest chapel has a high-arched ceiling, a plain wooden pulpit, and less than a dozen worn-out pews. Several tapestries hang along the back walls, collages that depict a modest, hardworking life in a slum similar to the one just outside the doors. 

At the rear of the chapel, high on the wall, hangs a large wooden holy symbol of Sarenrae studded with yellow and orange flecks of glass.

Tiff  
Tiff is gonna bet Geleafa didn’t come here for the cabbage soup. It’s still breakfast time, though, so they go to blend in with the line/crowd at the soup kitchen.

Racaille  
With Tiff handling the free food, Racaille takes care of the lobby. He inserts himself into the nearest shadowy-corner conversation.

Geleafa  
Geleafa weaves through the lobby toward the chapel. She herself is not religious. Prayers to Ketephys, the elven god of the hunt, are the closest thing that she has toward such leanings and even then, they’re nothing but hazy memories.

She sits down without an upward glance on the first occupied pew. After a respectful minute of heart-thumping silence, she whispers at her neighbor, her eyes never straying from the empty pulpit.

“Pardon me, but I’m looking for a man named Beltias. You could say I’ve been sent by a friend from another life--and already paid in full.”

Lure  
Lure, casually edging along the wall of the chapel, freezes. His face burns right up to the root of his horns. Abort. Abort.

He scurries back along to the wall toward the lobby and soup kitchen, waving his hands just above his belt as rapidly and subtly as he can.

DM: @Tiff  
An elderly woman with ropey gray hair shoves a cracked wooden bowl at Tiff. There’s enough force behind her gnarled fist to send gray stew sloshing over the bowl’s edge.

Try as Tiff might to dodge, that’s a point-blank sloshing. It gets all over the front of their robes.

DM: @Racaille  
“You’re a fallen angel?” a handsome, genderneutral youth asks with a skeptical squint in their hazel eye.

“Oh aye,” replies the scraggly man wearing nothing but a long shirt and stinking of spirits. “Sent by Sarenrae herself to comfort them lost souls.”

“You tried to push Father Padrick off the balcony.”

“That’s how it’s done. Ain’t that right, Sareny,” says the man, turning to Racaille.

DM: @Geleafa  
“Lucky elfy,” says the man beside Geleafa, drawing back the hood of his patched-up cloak.

Her neighbor is a square-jawed Taldan with pale skin, brilliant blue eyes, and salt-and-pepper stubble. He leans a scarred but muscled arm along the pew’s backrest and grins roguishly.

“You’re speaking to him.”

DM: @Lure  
Un-fucking-believably, despite dashing down the wall waving his hands above his belt like some kind of reverse pervert, none of the vagrants in the mission notice anything out of the ordinary. In fact, Lure gets the feeling that much stranger things break out on these hallowed grounds all the time.

Tiff  
Nonplussed, Tiff takes the bowl and downs it in a single draught.

“Thanks for the soup,” Tiff pulls their stained shirt taut, “and the shower.”

They pass the bowl back to the soup master and rendezvous with Lure in the nearest shadowy corner.

Racaille  
“Well, you know what we say in heaven--ohp, it’s my ride.”

Racaille gives the conversants a two-finger salute and strolls off as casually as he can toward Tiff and Lure.

Geleafa  
Geleafa smiles and rests her arm on backrest as well. Her blue-skinned fingers brush Beltias’s.

“Can we speak somewhere more private?”

DM: @Geleafa  
“As you wish.”

Beltias glides off the pew onto his feet. He helps Geleafa up by the hand, which becomes an arm hooked around her waist. He takes her back through the lobby towards the southern flight of stairs.

As they walk, Geleafa finally catches sight of her coworkers gathering in the last corner of the lobby.

Lure  
Lure’s rose red eyes meet Geleafa’s. Fuuuck. He cringes apologetically and grabs Tiff and Racaille around the arms.

“She’s seen us. Oh Hells, and she might know that I know that this is a sex job. Now you know--we gotta go.”

Tiff  
Tiff freezes against Lure’s tugging.

“A sex job? In this dump? That doesn’t sound right.”

Racaille  
“I actually agree with Tiff, here,” says Racaille, extricating his arm from Lure’s. “Did she actually say she was here to blow someone? Because you can’t make those kind of assumptions, my dear tiefling--and she already knows we’re here, so we might as well stick around and get her explanation.”

Geleafa  
Geleafa’s closed smile never falters, but her hands ball to fists at Beltias’s side. She should’ve known Racaille would get her back for preempting his open bar bender. And of course he had the gall to drag the others into this.

She sighs and fixes her eyes on the southern stairs. Maybe her coworkers could be guilted into serving as a distraction if things went metaphorically south as well.

Lure  
Lure also freezes. He had, actually, just assumed this was a private sex thing. Maybe Racaille had a good idea for once.

“So what, we just mingle until she gets back, if she gets back? Because we don’t exactly blend in.”

For starters, they’d washed--clothes and body.

DM  
“No, you don’t,” says a red-headed man with ruddy, calloused knuckles.

A jumpy runt of a man with a rapier and a hulking lug of a half-orc with a swollen eye accompany him. The half-orcish man’s arm is weighted down by a murderously heavy morningstar.

“You’re too rich for the likes of us,” growls the runt.

“How ‘bout you make us a donation, eh?” says the half-orc. “After all, we are a church.”


	4. Log 4

Tiff  
Tiff shrugs. St. Caspieran’s may be one of the worst missions they’d ever seen, but at least it’s trying.

“Sure, why not.”

They pull out the pouch of gold they’d gotten off last night’s loot table.

Racaille  
“Woah, woah, woah, easy there,” says Racaille, sticking a hand out between the church muscle and Tiff’s stupidity.

He gently but steadily sticks their hand and pouch back into the pocket from whence they came. And rounds on the three questionably religious church workers with his trademark grin.

“That’s actually going to another batch of homeless orphans--we’re shopping around. But tell you what, I like what I’m seeing here, so we’ll come back tomorrow with an equal donation. Ta-ta for now, mates.”

Racaille hooks his arms in his coworkers and strides confidently toward the exit doors.

Lure  
Lure summons up every ounce of confidence he can muster just to keep up. The strain of his smile bites into his cheek. He gives the three a polite nod over the shoulder belying his rapid pace.

“Toodle-oo,” he squeaks.

DM: @Geleafa  
Beltias takes Geleafa to a room remarkably clean for a flophouse. The bed actually looks comfortable—or at least free of lice. Three wardrobe cases lie pushed beneath the bed.

Geleafa  
Geleafa pats the edge bed but doesn’t sit down herself. It’ll have to do.

“Make yourself comfortable...and take it all off. I’m going to strip for you.”

DM  
Upstairs, Beltias nudges the door shut with a foot and strips it all off with gusto. He hops down onto the bed’s edge, legs parted, dick rising.

Downstairs, the three muscled alms-collectors seem to buy your excuses right up until Lure’s voice cracks on the way out. That’s not the sound of a fellow about to make good on a promise.

“Oi you!” says the jumpy runt. “Get back here!”

“Yeah, no running away,” booms the half-orc.

The red-headed man draws a rapier from his belt.

“Let’s get ‘em, lads.”

Geleafa  
Geleafa giggles and spins so her cloak flares out. One hand looses its clasp. The other hand closes on the handle of her sickle. She rounds on Beltias, slashing with the curved blade.

DM  
Beltias ducks so fast that Geleafa gets the sense this isn’t the first time he’s been attacked in bed. He grabs a dagger from the heap of clothes beside him and leaps to his feet.

Geleafa  
Geleafa stumbles at the man suddenly up in her grill and accidentally fucking cuts herself.

But! She follows through, using the momentum of the slash to spin up with a vicious crescent cut. 

Tiff  
Things just got plenty more interesting. Tiff half-grins and puts up their fists. They charge at the half-orc.

DM  
In Tiff’s excitement, they accidentally sock themself in the jaw.

Lucky for them, it’s a bad day all around. The half-orc nearly beans himself with his own morningstar.

The red-headed man and the runt swipe their rapiers at Racaille and Lure respectively--mostly in warning for all the good the swiping does.

Racaille  
Racaille’s also swiping in warning. If he could facepalm, he would, but he’s armed in both hands.

Lure  
The heat in Lure’s face consumes his entire body. He lets out an abyssal roar. His nails hook and blacken into razor-sharp claws. He tears at the runt in an instinctive attack.

DM  
Sadly, Lure’s instinct fails him. Twice. In fact, the only skin grievously shredded is his own--so grievously that the massive hemorrhaging drops Lure like a whack to the head. 

Upstairs, Geleafa’s blade strikes true, scything into Beltias’s bare flesh. But...it’s only a flesh wound.

Beltias is about to give as good as he gets only to stumble himself over a discarded shoe. He curses as he accidently slices a thin cut into his thigh.

Geleafa  
How hard can it be to hit an unarmored naked dude? Geleafa curses and tries again.

Tiff  
Tiff gets in a good swing. Unfortunately it’s on themself. But the next one should really kill.

DM  
Geleafa misses. Again. At least she doesn’t stab herself this time. Better yet, Beltias is so surprised by her dogged will to kill that his dagger slashes right over her head.

Tiff, yes, hits with that next blow but doesn’t do anywhere near enough damage to kill the half-orc. They’ve knocked the half-orc off his game, though, and his morningstar goes wide.

The runt steps over the fainted Lure and attacks in Racaille in tandem with the red-headed man. And...they’ve got nothing on him.

Racaille  
Which would be baller if Racaille had anything on them. He doesn’t.

DM  
Beltias tries to get one in on Geleafa, but she’s dodging his blows with a skill he’s gotta admire.

Geleafa  
Geleafa is determined to kill this past-life-murdering son of a bitch if it’s the last thing her past life wills her. She goes for the throat.

Tiff  
Tiff keeps the wailing coming in from both fists.

DM  
Geleafa’s past life may will it, but her body just isn’t abling these attacks on Beltias.

BAM. Tiff hits that motherfucker so hard he sprays blood and teeth all over the mission floor.

He’s furious. The half-orc roars. The morningstar comes crashing down on Tiff’s head. Tiff drops right next to their downed coworker.

The runt and the red-headed man are on Racaille’s case, but they still might as well be slapping the air in front of his face.

Racaille  
What the fuck! Ok, everyone had clearly overestimated their abilities here. It’s too late to make peace. Racaille just hightails it the fuck out of there. Ta-ta-for-fucking-now.

DM  
If Geleafa wasn’t getting a psychic sense that things are objectively NOT going to plan, she should be now. The deep slash down her front from Beltias’s dagger may help put that into perspective.

Geleafa  
No, yeah, the wet chill of Geleafa’s own blood puts a damper on her will to kill. Revenge is not worth another reincarnation--it might actually fuck with her samsaran cycle of reincarnation.

She growls under her breath but makes a dash for the door.

DM  
For Geleafa, it’s too fucking late. The last thing she feels is the bite of cold steel in her spine before darkness takes her. Let’s just hope her failed revenge hasn’t fucked her over spiritually as well as physically.

As for Racaille, the runt, the red-haired man, and the half-orc chase him all the way out of the mission/deathsite of his fallen coworkers. Only stop once he’s outside the bounds this particular, notoriously downtrodden neighborhood.

Racaille  
Racaille ducks into the darkest, emptiest alley he can find this morning. He retches his guts out. That was upsetting. Disgustingly upsetting.

He drops his back against the alley wall, panting. His eyes burn and water. His coworkers had thrown their lives away. For Lure and maybe even Tiff, that was partially, fractionally his fault.

Racaille slides down the bricks to a slumped seat, resting his head on his knees. There’s something to take away here. Riddleport’s a dangerous place, too dangerous to go it alone.

It’s not much, but his newfound wisdom was really hard-earned. Maybe even worth a level?

DM  
The supreme god of this world doesn’t even want to seem like they reward stupidity.

Racaille  
Not to like, argue with god, but it seems like a personal revenge quest shouldn’t have been hard enough that it needed four people on a good day working together to get it done.

DM  
Ugh. Fine.

Racaille’s feeling at least a month-and-a-half older after that snafu and when he wakes up again, he’s really gonna feel it.

Racaille  
Racaille stumbles back to the Gold Goblin just before the afternoon rolls around. For once, he doesn’t say a word to anyone--not until he has to work. Even then, his grin is hollow. The wink is gone from his eye.

DM  
Larur, of course, asks Racaille what happened to the others as per their duties as floor manager. Though frustrated with Racaille’s unresponsiveness, the half-orc reads the air and takes the training easier than they planned to on Racaille.

Tonight was gonna hard with just themself, Saul’s three loyal employees, and one newb, but they’d pull through. Recruitment would start tomorrow.


	5. Log 5

DM  
A week has passed since the heist upon the Gold Goblin gambling hall and the tragic deaths of its new recruits. The ever-faithful floor manager Larur, however, has managed to recruit three new persons in their place...at the last minute. Tonight is their very first night on the job alongside the marginally more experienced Racaille.

Serem  
A tall, olive-skinned elf deals out golem cards to patrons with a sharp, slightly skewed smile. The magically-transitioned man has tied his black curls tied back with a red ribbon matching the casino’s red vest. The fitted uniform reveals a more muscular than average build for an elf, especially a Riddleport city elf.

A flicker of black in a patron’s hand catches Serem’s hazel eye. He catches the naughty patron’s wrist, clicking his tongue in a scolding rhythm.

“Bit slow for a cheat, aren’t ya?” he chuckles. “Thanks for playing--the house thanks ya for your generous donation.”

Racaille  
A genderfluid Chelaxian of middling height and build stands just inside the main doors of the Gold Goblin sporting his roguishly dishevelled red vest. He winks an onyx-black eye at every patron coming through the doors.

“Welcome to the Gold Goblin! If you have any questions, I’m at your humble service.”

Voe  
A bronze-skinned, nonbinary aasimar walks onto a low stage across from the casino’s bar. She’s rolled up the shirt and pant-sleeves of her uniform, which are slightly longer than her short, athletic build can accommodate.

Voe climbs to a seat onto a high stool, shoulder-length brown hair wildly sweeping her shoulders as she finds her balance. She untucks a shining lyre from under her arm and places it in her lap. She closes her solid black eyes and plays.

Immediately cringing. A full-on angel, Voe is not.

Cadens  
A short, stocky, Varisian server with the typical olive skin but an atypical mop of steel gray hair ducks her head behind her tray of drinks and grins at the rancid note from the stage. That’ll wake everyone up.

The genderfluid changeling weaves her way through the milling crowd to her target table. 

“Two mojitos, double mint on one,” she taps the glass with a nail like a black talon. “Hold the sugar, hold the mint on the other.”

Maybe she should’ve painted her claws to match the uniform...nah. Nobody gave Cadens a second glance anyway, unless they had a complaint.

Her muddy brown eyes roll at the mere thought of dealing with people. Thank Nethys she’d lucked into the one casino job where she didn’t have to do anything but bark an order back at the orderee.

DM: @Serem  
The cheat grumbles but walks off before Serem has to threaten them with Bojask the Bad Bouncer.

“Nice catch,” says Larur from Serem’s peripheral.

The whip-thin half-orc taps their pen to their clipboard then points it up at the shadowed catwalks over the main gaming floor.

“Saul has asked to see you upstairs.”

They call Bojask over themself to man the golem table in Serem’s place.

DM: @Racaille  
“No question, but there’s been a request,” says a familiar voice from behind Racaille.

There stands Larur, clipboard, pen, and all.

“Saul has asked for you up in the catwalks.”

DM: @Voe  
Whether intended or not, Voe’s ear-grating lyre-plucking has driven all but one of her listeners back to the gambling tables. Only the whip-thin floor manager remains, steely eyes narrowed to a wince.

“Are you sure you’re a musician? After you speak with Saul, perhaps we should arrange for you to take a different position at the Gold Goblin. Anyway, the boss has asked to see you up in the catwalks.”

DM: @Cadens  
As Cadens winds her way to the next table, a slender green hand adds two empty glasses to her tray, but compensates with a balancing finger underneath. The half-orc floor manager gives her a sharp nod.

“I’ll take this from here. Saul has asked to see you up in the catwalks. What, ah, table was this going to?”

Serem  
“The boss gets what the boss wants,” Serem shrugs.

He lays the cards spread flat on the table for Bojask and heads up to the shadows.

Racaille  
“Aye-aye, mate,” says Racaille, giving the floor manager a two-finger salute.

He takes the steps up two-at-a-time. It’s quieter here, the din of the gambling hall faded to a warm, gold murmur underfoot. He gives Serem a friendly wave and smile--smaller and less toothy than his trademark grin.

Voe  
“No, please, I am--I swear!” says Voe, teetering on the stool.

She jumps down before she drops her lyre.

“I can do this, really. Just give me one more chance--ah, right after I talk to Saul.”

Voe tucks her lyre under her arm like a schoolbook and dashes up the stairs. She can’t get fired from this job. There’s no money in Riddleport playing on the street, and the taverns are even seedier than the gambling hall.

She leans her head on the catwalk rail as soon as she gets upstairs. She only picks herself up once the metal’s coolness has spread through her face.

...and she’s not the only one up here. Voe, blushing furiously, gives a tiny wave to her devastating coworkers, elf and Chelaxian.

Cadens  
Cadens shakes her head at the floor manager, her mouth twisting into half a wry grin. That Larur.

“Table 8, don’t be late. They’ve changed their order three times tonight and threatened to call you twice.”

She trips lightly up the stairs, eyes on the darkness. All the new recruits are there, and the one with like a week of experience. Interesting, a gathering of the expendables.

Cadens gives one sharp, collective nod at the others blushing, smiling, or not. The only one she doesn’t see is Saul.

DM  
Your boss is the last to arrive, his short, stocky shadow filled out by the wings, horns, and tail of the imp on his shoulder. Saul smiles at you all, rubbing Old Scratch under his bearded chin.

“Follow me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Saul walks out over the gambling hall, stopping at the ghoulette roulette table. He points.

Beside a Varisian half-elf with tattoos on her face and neck sits a hulking, ruddy-faced Taldan man with close-cropped brown hair. Most of the other customers are giving him a wide berth. Hans, the croupier, even appears to be sweating more than usual.

“You see that mean-looking bloke there--not the Varisian--that. Is Clegg-motherfucking-Zincher.”

Even the doughiest newborn in Riddleport has heard the name of Clegg Zincher whispered in fear and some measure of grudging reverence. While he may be Riddleport’s most ruthless crimelord, Clegg isn’t known as a gambler. 

“The only reason he’d come here is to send me a message. Now I can’t kick him out--that’d just be plain rude, so I want you four to use your noggins and figure out what he’s doing here. Can you manage that?”

Racaille  
“Leave it to us, Saul.”

He waits for the boss to leave before gathering his junior coworkers around and presenting his plan.

“Alright, kids, here’s the plan: we go up to Saul and I’ll ask him what he’s doing here--simple, elegant.”

Cadens  
Cadens narrows her eyes.

“All of us go up to him? Isn’t that gonna be kinda weird?”

Serem  
Serem shrugs.

“I could hang back for support if Clegg wants a fight.”

Voe  
“Or are we supposed to be scaring him so he doesn’t want to fight?”

Racaille  
“That last one--what she said. Best case scenario, he talks. Worst case scenario, we’re already set to lay down suppressing humanoid resources.”

Cadens  
“Alright,” says Cadens, putting up her hands.

There’s no point trying to change their minds if they’re already set on cutting their diplomacy with an underlying threat.

Serem  
Serem follows Racaille down, staying a step behind and beside the Chelaxian. His mouth curves into half a grin. There’s no telling what’s going to happen.

Voe  
Voe follows the others, staying at the back of the group. She’s not particularly scary, especially not with the lyre tucked under her arm.

DM  
Clegg pays you no mind as you approach. His eyes are fixed on the spinning ghoul’s head. It lands on Racaille’s lucky number twelve.

“Something nice,” says the undead head.

Hans grins shakily and slides the payouts to Clegg, the half-elf, and the others. His fingers leave sweat smears on the metal. 

Every patron but the half-elf takes their coin and scrams as though in anticipation of a fight.

Racaille  
Racaille steps into Clegg’s eyeline, leaning back casually against the ghoulette table. He fixes the crimelord with his trademark grin.

“It looks like you’re having a good evening there, mate. Maybe you’ve heard, but our boss Saul’s taken a special interest in you. So what brings you to the Gold Goblin?”

DM: @Racaille  
Clegg’s head turns as slow as a massive, grinding millstone. His rough-hewn face is completely unreadable.

“Lucky me.”

His voice is deep enough that it rings your bones.

“I come to play. You come to stop me?”

Cadens  
That might actually hurt business.

“I guess not,” she shrugs, throwing up her hands. “Have a good night.”

Clearly, Racaille’s approach isn’t working. If they want more info, they’ve gotta get their hands dirty.

As Cadens walks away, she brushes Serem’s shoulder and discreetly taps a black-clawed finger into his palm. Hopefully, the elf can take a hint. And that she’d judged his proclivities correctly.

Serem  
Serem raises his dark brows at Cadens’ tap but otherwise gives nothing away. He leans in toward Clegg with a bow.

“Goodnight, sir. You enjoy yourself.”

He claps a hand on the back of Clegg’s shoulder...then lets it drop in the area of the man’s coat pocket.

DM: @Serem  
In the blink of an eye, Clegg’s meaty claw of a hand closes around Serem’s wrist. He stands without letting go.

“You call this hospitality, thief?”

Voe  
Voe steps in, waving her one free hand meekly. This couldn’t get any worse, so she might as well do something.

“Sorry, sorry sir. I’m the new, junior manager. I’ll have this man-joke of an employee fired immediately. Serem, you’re fired. Get the Hells out of here.”

She stamps her foot and stabs her finger toward the doors.

DM  
The enter gambling hall goes silent. Every patron in the house including Clegg himself, turn to watch the junior manager apparent make her first firing.

Clegg releases Serem’s wrist and stands up himself. He crosses his beefy arms over his chest, the trace of an amused smile on his blocky mug.

Racaille  
Racaille blinks at the aasimar. He couldn’t have believed she was such a good liar unless he’d seen it. He’d seen it and still couldn’t believe it. Dang, Voe.

Cadens  
Cadens bows her head. Shadow and ashen hair hide her grin. This had turned into quite the show.

Serem  
Serem nods at Clegg in thanks for the hand back. He makes an about face and walks out the front doors. Then doubles back around to the back of the gambling hall to get back in through the kitchen.

DM: @Serem  
Serem notices nothing out of the ordinary on his round about the outside of the casino despite it being the perfect place for Clegg’s layabouts to wait while their boss is hanging out inside. In fact, he’s so oblivious that the thought never even occurs to him.

Voe  
Voe gives Serem’s departure her sternest nod before turning back to the crimelord.

“Again, so sorry about that Mr. Zincher. We’ll get you a drink on the house.”

She clears her throat in Cadens’ direction.

DM  
But it looks like that drink will have to wait--Clegg doesn’t return to his seat. He sweeps his winnings into his pockets and claps a heavy hand on Voe’s shoulder.

“I’ll hold you too that. Good evening yourself, junior.”

Only after he leaves does the conversation and natural clattering rhythms of the casino pick back up again.

The Varisian half-elf still at the ghoulette table raises an olive brown hand.

“Does this mean you’re hiring?”

Racaille  
Racaille shakes his head with a good-natured laugh.

“Opportunistic--Saul’ll like that. As it happens, Voe here isn’t the junior manager,” if anyone is in line for junior manager, it would be a more senior employee, “but we are hiring. What’s your name, mate?”

DM: @Racaille  
“Samaritha Beldusk,” says the half-elf, hopping off her stool.

She extends a tattooed hand for shaking. She’s got a firm, smart grip.

Cadens  
“Well met,” says Cadens, returning to the ghoulette table. “I guess someone should go tell Saul how this fell out.”

DM: @Cadens  
“I’ll go,” says Samaritha, already looking around for the boss. “Uh, what does he look like again?”

Serem  
“I’ll go,” says Serem, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. “You can come with me.”

He hands the tray to Cadens.

“The cook sends his greetings, Table 19.”

Voe  
A flood of tension drains from Voe’s body. She teeters on her feet but doesn’t fall. It’s over. She did it.

DM  
A slender green hand steadies Voe by the shoulder.

“You may not be much of a lyrist, but that was some management-level lying,” says Larur. “You did well.”

The floor manager accompanies Serem and Samaritha to Saul up in the catwalks. Saul seems satisfied just to have Clegg removed from the premises without a fight. He hires Samaritha on the spot and puts her under Larur’s advisement before heading back into the shadows toward his office.


	6. Log 6

DM  
The rest of the night passes without incident. As the gambling hall closes in the dark, earliest hours of the next morning, the only thing left to do is clean the place up and you’ll finally be off the clock.

The four of you are in the scullery, putting the last of your cleaning equipment away. Serem lifts up the wooden tub.

Out lashes a hissing flash of red. Two envenomed fangs sink their teeth into Serem’s skin. The man-sized snake’s poison saps his very life energy.

Voe  
“Serem!”

Magic floods into her scream, burning, raging. Its heat feeds her strength and the strength of any who accept her raging song.

Racaille  
Racaille takes Voe up on the empowering song as he sneaks around the lashing snake. Serem might’ve taken the worst of that venom, but as long as he’s still on his feet, he can set up a flank.

DM: @Racaille  
In Racaille’s rage, his short sword and dagger slice and dice the snake up into dozens of raw steaks wrapped in red scale. The beast is dead.

Cadens  
Cadens, declining the thoughtless raging, sets her fingertips on Serem’s shoulder.

“There,” she says, magic flaring, “that should take the edge off the bite, but I can’t do anything about the poison.”

Serem  
“Thanks,” he says breathlessly.

He crouches down to rest beside the tub he’d dropped in his surprise.

“Now we really do know what Clegg was doing here.”

DM  
Voe, Racaille, and Serem all notice a scrap of paper where the tub had been. It bears a crude drawing of Saul Vancaskerkin, now with both hands missing and a brief threat scribbled below: “Looking to go two for two, Saul? Pack up, get out of town, and you’ll be fine!” 

Voe  
“I guess we should bring that to Saul. I mean, I can do it.”

Racaille  
“No, that’s fine. I’ll take it,” says Racaille, picking the scrap up off the floor.

Cadens  
Cadens can’t help rolling her eyes.

“How about you both go, and I’ll walk Serem to our room before he passes out.”

Serem  
“Thanks for the confidence.”

DM  
When Voe and Racaille show Saul the note, his mouth tightens to a grim line but he shakes his head.

“Fucking Clegg. I’ve got too much invested in the Gold Goblin. If this ship goes down, I’m going with it.”

He bids them goodnight without another word.

Voe  
Voe tells the others what he said before she crawls into her bed, the bunk under Cadens’. She stares up at the wood, puzzling.

Clegg had proved he doesn’t make idle threats. There’s a storm coming.

“How bad should things get before you bail?”

Racaille  
Racaille reaches up to trace an idle finger along the ceiling. Before someone dies was ideal but surprisingly difficult to judge.

“Once people start dying,” he says distantly.

Cadens  
Cadens mouth twists wryly.

“I hate to break it to you, but that’s an occupational hazard of working for any ‘reformed’ crimelord.”

Did they not know Saul was a crime boss himself before they took this job? Of course a history of bad decisions is following him around.

“Good night.”

Serem  
A snore cuts through the darkness and tension after Cadens’ breaking news. Serem is out like a light, sleeping off the warning snake’s venom.

DM  
A few weeks after the run-in with Clegg and his man-sized snake, Saul calls the four of you into his office two hours before the Gold Goblin opens its doors. He paces the room, frowning into the floorboards.

“Larur’s gone missing, and I fear the worst.”

That first part is certainly true. None of you remember seeing heads or tails of the half-orc since yesterday’s closing time.

“They were running me an errand, see, to pay off old Lymas Smeed.”

Lymas Smeed, the moneylender iss as infamous for his wealth as he is for his repo operations. Rumor has it he’s never lost a single copper.

“I’m not proud of it, but the only way I was able to finance the Gold Goblin’s refurbishment was taking out a loan...and using the Gold Goblin itself as collateral. I’d sent Larur to pay up a quarter of that--they should’ve been back hours ago.”

Serem  
“That’s a lot of coin to be carrying around Riddleport.”

Serem leans back against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest in thought.

“Larur may not have made it far out of the Gold Goblin.”

DM: @Serem  
“Actually, I gave him the gold at his apartment,” says Saul.

He gives the four of you directions to Larur’s apartment as well as Smeed’s. They’re on opposite sides of town.

Voe  
Voe chews the inside of her cheek, calculating. As a group, they’d never make it to both sites and back to work on time.

“Ok, so maybe Serem and I go to check out Larur’s place and Racaille and Cadens can go to Smeed’s.”

Racaille  
“Absolutely not,” says Racaille, standing up from his seat. “Look, juniors, this city eats people like us for breakfast. We pick one location, go together, and don’t get jumped and die.”

Cadens  
“Sorry, buddy,” says Cadens, patting Racaille’s shoulder with a black-nailed hand. “I’m with them. You’ve just got downvoted.”

\--/--

DM  
Larur’s apartment is easy for Serem and Voe to find despite being a flat among identical flats crammed together in a neighborhood of fire-safety-defying tenements.

Serem  
Serem crouches just outside Larur’s door to check for any signs of a struggle. But it’s difficult to focus with all the asbestos and other pollutants in the building--gods damn substandard building practices.

Voe  
Voe crouches by his shoulder and inspects the hinges, the lock. Maybe someone had followed Saul and forced their way in after he handed off the money.

DM  
Serem is surely distracted, but Voe is on point. There aren’t any signs of a struggle, but the door is unlocked.

Serem  
Serem takes Voe’s arm and draws the two of them back from the door.

“Who leaves the door unlocked in Riddleport?” he asks quietly.

No one. That’s just asking for theft, robbery, and murder, not necessarily in that order. Larur wouldn’t have been that stupid.

Voe  
Voe’s solid black eyes widen without a trace of whites.

“Someone’s been here...is maybe still here,” she whispers.

She draws the cutlass from her belt.

Serem  
Serem nods and shuts his hazel eyes. His body flares with magic. Two razor-sharp claws descend from each hand. His shoes and feet warp into cloven hooves. Two black bull’s horns sprout from his skull.

He opens his eyes, now solid black as well, and steps in front of Voe. He opens the door.

Voe  
Voe can’t suppress a shiver at the primal, druidic magic that transformed her coworker before her very eyes. With those hooves and horns, she’s feeling conspicuously shorter than ever.

She shakes it off as Serem opens the door. Her grip on the cutlass tightens with her focus.

DM  
The door swings open to a dark but relatively tidy apartment. The air stills and a pungent whiff of alcohol and urine punches into your nose and eyes. A scruffy Taldan man stumbles into the dim light of the doorway.

“Oi! What you doing in me crash pad?”

Serem  
Beneath his horns of battle, Serem quirks a quizzical brow.

“Your crash pad? Who are you?”

Voe  
The whiff and stagger are enough to convince Voe her cutlass will do more harm than good here. She sheathes the blade and adds with open hands.

“This is actually our friend Larur’s home. You haven’t seen them, have you? A green, whip-thin half-orc with a thing for clipboards?”

DM  
The drunk man snorts and shakes his head.

“There weren’t nothing here when I checked the door. This what we call free real estate. But I will take lodgers at a reduced rate.”

Serem  
“No, thanks, we’ve seen enough here,” he says, backing out of the doorway.

Voe  
Voe waves and pulls the door shut after her. Then freezes.

“Oh, shit. Should we have searched the place?”

Serem  
“No need. That fellow wouldn’t have been able to hold back if he’d found a dead body.”

His horns and claws retract back into his elven form while his hooves shift into foot and boot. But he doesn’t stop moving, instead searching the hallway for tracks.

DM  
Unfortunately, there are so many residents in the tenement that the daily comings and goings have completely trampled over anything that would arouse suspicion. Other than the unlocked door.

 

\--/--

DM  
Lymas Smeed’s money-lending headquarters/home is surprisingly easy to find. It’s the only townhouse on Flat Street, which is otherwise comprised of rundown tenements packed as tight as alligator teeth. A sign out front of the front door shows a stack of gold coins above a name: “Rat Street Loans—by appointment only.”

Cadens  
Cadens steps out of the afternoon sun into the growing shadows of the tenements. This isn’t a bad part of town, but it’s not a good part either.

“Alright, if we’re doing recon, now’s the time.”

Racaille  
For a job tomorrow, maybe. It’s already too late for proper recon, but Racaille has to admit Cadens has her head in the right place.

“Right. Stay close.”

He leads Cadens around the townhouse looking for clues. He keeps his blades drawn just in case.

DM  
The front door is locked, but there’s a covered metal slit at eye level that would allow the conscientious moneylender to check out his potential customer.

The back door, opening into an alley, is also locked. On the one side of it is a pile of barrels and the other, old crates. Both contain refuse and garbage. One barrel appears to have been recently shifted, given the slick of freshly uncovered slime.

Cadens  
Cadens freezes at the slime-slick, a hollow pit in her gut. Her hand moves despite her natural disgust of the trash. She opens the barrel.

DM: @Cadens  
Inside is a poorly hidden clipboard. The papers are splattered and still damp with blood.

Racaille  
“Fuck.”

Racaille’s fist hits the alley’s brickwall side-first.

“Okay, okay. We take the news back. Regroup. And then Saul’ll probably send us back to deal with Smeed after work.”

Cadens  
“Racaille,” says Cadens, deathly quiet. “We’re already here. We deal with this now.”

Racaille  
Racaille clenches his teeth, jaw flexing. The dark red stain draws his eye. He lets out a long, low sigh. Racaille sheathes both blades and removes a set of lockpicks from his pack.

“Gimme twenty.”

DM  
Twenty minutes later, the lock on the backdoor clicks open.

Cadens  
Cadens sets her palms together.

“Armor on.”

Her magic flares and hardens into a protective aura. She gives Racaille a sharp nod.

Racaille  
Racaille replaces his thieves’ tools with his sword and dagger. He nods back and sneaks through the door first.

DM  
The only light in the backroom is filtered by grimy windows. It’s just enough to reveal a fireplace and a large, wire kennel containing...a baboon.

Cadens  
Not what Cadens would’ve expected, but it doesn’t stop her from keeping close to the walls and shadows. She creeps as quietly as she can to the door at the other side.

Racaille  
Racaille is doing exactly that as well but stays in front of Cadens. Spellcasters are notoriously squishy, as he’s seen for himself.

DM  
The baboon is too buys grooming lice off its hide to notice either of the intruders.

The backroom opens into a slightly better lit office, presumably where Smeed conducts his business. There’s a desk, chairs--nothing out of the ordinary except that no one is in the office. A set of splintery wooden stairs climbs along the wall to the second floor.

Cadens  
There’s nothing for it. Saul’s not here, so they’ve gotta go up. Cadens shuts her eyes and takes a tentative step.

DM: @Cadens  
The resulting creak could wake the dead. Seconds later, a pale, portly Taldan with a patchy beard glares down over the second floor railing. He flees with a curse.

You hear the telltale slamming of a heavy door. Behind you, the baboon shrieks in its kennel.

Racaille  
“Up! Up! Up! Up! Up!”

He races after Smeed to get to the door before it’s locked.

DM  
Racaille gets to the door. There’s a metal thunk behind the wood. Too slow.

The baboon leaps at Cadens behind him. It sinks its yellow fangs through her mage armor and into her throat. 

Her eyes roll to the back of her head. She slumps and falls off the staircase into a blood-leaking heap.

Racaille  
“Fuck! Not again!” Racaille screams.

He stabs both blades at the baboon before it kills him too.

DM  
The baboon leaps! And lands right on the business ends of Racaille’s sword and dagger. The skewered primate dies with a red-spraying wheeze of a shriek.

Racaille  
Racaille throws off the baboon and runs down the stairs. He slides to his knees beside Cadens in a clatter of blades. He rips up his shirt and presses the rags to her bleeding throat.

“Come on, Cadens. Come on, Cadens.”

DM  
While Racaille’s ministrations might’ve worked under more ordinary circumstances, as soon as he lifts her neck he can tell that it’s broken.

Racaille  
Racaille’s face crumbles but only for a second before tightening to grim lines. He collects his blades and hefts his dead coworker over his shoulder. He stalks out through the back door in silence.


	7. Log 7

DM  
Serem, Voe, and Racaille make it back from opposite sides of town about thirty minutes before the Gold Goblin opens.

Serem  
Serem assumes there was an implied meet-back-up-in-Saul’s-office-before-work clause on their investigation mission and heads straight up to said office. He explains the suspicious but mostly inconclusive findings from Larur’s apartment.

Voe  
“Honestly, I’ve got nothing to add,” says Voe, rubbing the back of her neck.

Racaille  
Racaille walks in bleak-faced as death and throws Larur’s blood-soaked clipboard onto Saul’s desk. He lowers Cadens’ dead body into a chair more gently. His expression never changes.

DM  
Saul reels back into his chair at the clack of the clipboard. It takes him a full minute of staring back and forth between the clipboard, his coworkers, and the body to process the implications of Racaille’s actions.

“So...so it really was Smeed,” he croaks. “I take it you--you dealt with him?”

Serem  
Serem unconsciously draws back at the sight of Racaille, Cadens, and the findings. He jumps slightly as his back bumps the office wall.

Voe  
Voe gasps, instinctively throwing both hands over her mouth. That night after the crimelord incident Racaille hadn’t been kidding. And now Cadens...Cadens…

Just glancing at the body is enough to make Voe’s eyes blur with burning tears.

Racaille  
“We tried,” he nearly growls between his clenched teeth.

A muscle flexes in his jaw, but he forces his mouth open enough to give a rough sketch of what happened.

DM  
“So...you didn’t deal with him.”

Saul raises both hands to his temples.

“Gods damn it, Racaille! I sent you to get info--fucking info! Now I’m down a floor manager AND an employee, AND up an angry money-lender--my OWN angry money-lender.”

He bursts into a muttered stream of curses so foul that his loyal imp Old Scratch flaps uneasily from perch to perch around the office.

“Ok, fine, after work, you’re all going to Smeed’s and you’re gonna make this right by word or by blade--whatever it fucking takes.”

Serem  
“Smeed’s probably not taking words after this.”

Voe  
“I know he’s a murderer, but you want us to just...murder Smeed?”

Racaille  
“I’m not doing it.”

DM  
“What the fuck do you mean you’re not doing it? You’re the one who made this fucking mess! You clean! Your shit!”

Serem  
Serem wouldn’t have thought to argue with Saul but with Racaille having said it, he can’t help also not-wanting to go out there and get murdering.

“Self-defense and bodyguard duty are one thing, but we weren’t hired as killers.”

Voe  
Voe steps up beside and between Racaille and Serem.

“That’s right. Sorry about the mess, but we’re not cleaning it up with murder.”

Racaille  
“If you want murderers, hire them. You said it yourself--the Gold Goblin’s down two employees.”

He leaves the clipboard and Cadens for Saul to deal with and stalks toward the door. He’s got a greeter’s job to do.

DM  
Saul, red-faced, slams both fists on his desk.

“Refuse me and this comes out of your gods-damned paychecks!”

Serem  
Serem walks to the door.

“I’ll take the hit,” he calls over his shoulder as he makes his exit.

Voe  
“Same,” says Voe.

She dashes out after Serem before she loses her nerve.

Racaille  
Racaille shrugs and smiles, grimly. He walks out without a word.

\--/--

DM  
Hire two more murder-friendly employees is exactly what Saul does before the night is out. He sends them to Smeed’s townhouse along with Bojask, his personal bodyguard and manager of the Gold Goblin’s backroom fighting pit. 

The silver brow piercings on either side of Bojask’s face add zero levity to the hulking Varisian’s dour mug. He stops the two brand new employees at the end of the block, pointing at the lit windows of Smeed’s house. Multiple shadows move on the top and bottom floors.

Merimna  
Slender, ghastly white fingers wrap around Bojask and the other mercenary’s lapels. A half-elf dhampir draws both a step deeper into the alley darkness. 

Merimna reaches a finger up to her brother’s forehead first. She brushes his ash brown hair, identical to her own, away from his brow and touches the tip to his third eye. Her black eyes flare with magic.

“Trick implanted, Meda. Bojask, it’s your turn.”

Medomai  
“Thanks, Mina,” says the younger half-elf dhampir.

There’s a slight smile on his lavender-painted lips, as per usual. Unlike his sister, he’s also painted red lines around his almond-shaped black eyes, over his cheekbones, and down the line of his nose. This way, no one could mistake him for Mina.

Medomai ties his rumpled, shoulder-length hair back with a teal ribbon and draws his heavy crossbow.

“Shall we take the front or the back?”

DM  
Bojask submits to Merimna’s pre-murder buffing with a noncommittal grunt. He draws his battleaxe and handaxe as soon as she’s finished with him.

“We go through the back, together. No good angle for them to shoot down at us.”

Merimna  
Nor for either of the siblings to shoot up.

“Right,” she says, keeping her longbow close anyway. “Ready when you are.”

Medomai  
Medomai tilts his smiling face, ready and eager.

DM  
Try as they might for a stealthy approach, Bojask stumbles into the armored Medomai. The clank echoes down the alley behind Smeed’s townhouse. Bojask drops his forehead against the grimy brick wall with an exasperated grunt. 

“So they’re REALLY expecting us. Fine.”

He whips out his thieves’ tools and picks the lock on the back door. He stands back, positioning himself behind the door like a shield. He yanks it open.

Three of Smeed’s bodyguards occupy the corners of the lantern-lit backroom, shortbows drawn.

Medomai  
Medomai points a finger from the line of his nose to the nearest archer.

“Don’t shoot.”

Despite the glibness of his remark, there’s magic in his words.

DM  
Medomai’s archer looks on at himself in amazement as he lowers his own shortbow. The others shoot, one at Medomai and one at Merimna.

The second’s arrow flies wide, but the first is out for blood. As soon as he releases his pinpointed arrow, Merimna’s trick activates.

A perfect copy of Medomai pops up in the dhampir’s space. The arrow rips a bloody swathe along the fake Medomai’s neck, shattering the illusion.

Bojask chucks a throwing axe from behind the door. Its heavy head thunks into the leg of the archer who shot Medomai.

Merimna  
Merimna fixes her mesmeric stare at the archer who shot at her and fires her own arrow.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s arrow flies straight down the line of her eye into his. The archer thunks to the ground.

Medomai  
Medomai fires his crossbow at the frozen archer.

DM  
Medomai’s bolt punches a bloody hole straight into the archer’s chest. He dies without his weapon ever getting back up.

Bojask’s wounded archer hobbles away into the next room with the axe still embedded in his leg.

“Gimme back my axe, motherfucker!” yells Bojask, hurling a second.

The head thunks between the archer’s shoulder blades. The dead man grunts, the axe having knocked out his wind. His body prevents the door between the office and back room from shutting.

Medomai  
“Onward, then?”

He enters the back room and fires at anyone in the business office from the doorway.

DM  
Medomai’s crossbow fires true. His bolt pings one of the three guards in the office.

The three keep to the walls and corners, each firing at one of Medomai, Merimna, and Bojask. Medomai and Bojask’s archers are too startled by the entry and sudden death of their compatriot to fire straight. Merimna’s, however, is right on.

As his arrow flies, Merimna’s trick activates. An illusory clone of hers appears in her space. The arrow sinks into its heart, shattering it.

Bojask gives the head of his last throwing axe a kiss. He chucks it at Medomai’s arrow-pinged archer.

The axe cuts at the neck. The archer’s head flies clean off.

Merimna  
Merimna shrugs. If you’re only gonna carry around three ammo, might as well make ‘em count.

She fires at the fucker who busted her shadow clone.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s arrow sinks deep into the archer’s bow-holding arm. He screams and turns to run up the stairs.

Medomai  
Medomai fires at the wounded, fleeing archer.

DM  
His bolt goes wide, thunking into the drywall.

The wounded archer makes it up the stairs but appears to be blocked by a locked door if his frantic yelling and pounding is any indication.

The last archer in the office curses his buddy out as he fires at Bojask. And he should’ve saved the cursing for after the shot, as he misses. Horrendously.

Bojask roars and takes on the final archer with a cross sweep of his battle and handaxe. The archer falls to the floor in a pile of bloody limbs.

Merimna  
Merimna winces. That was vile. She gives the pile of limbs a wide berth en route to the staircase. She fires up at the runaway archer. Or tries to--that’s a miss.

Medomai  
“I got this one, Mina.”

He fires he crossbow. Also missing.

“Eh, nevermind. Lucky you,” he shouts up at the archer. “You get to live.”

DM  
The archer, wounded, bleeding, and utterly exhausted on the doomed side of the locked door, turns around.

“R-really?”

Bojask charges up the stairs and hacks the man into steaks.

“No.”

Medomai  
“Balls of the Archfiend, Bojask. What’d you even need us for?” Medomai chuckles.

DM: @Medomai  
“Cover,” says Bojask, kicking aside the man-chunks.

He crouches at the upstairs door and pulls out his thieves’ tools. Certain that Smeed has nowhere to run, he takes his sweet time--all twenty minutes of it.

Merimna  
While he’s going at it, Merimna renews the mesmerist tricks on Meda and herself.

Medomai  
“Thanks, Mina. Ready when you, Bojask.”

DM  
Bojask is ready. He shifts back up to his feet and kicks in the door.

Someone screams.

Two muscle-bound bodyguards stand with their short swords at the ready on either side of the doorway to the cluttered bedroom. The sweaty, patchy-bearded Smeed stands on the bed, crossbow drawn.

Bojask swings his battleaxe at once. The blade cuts straight through a guard’s neck and chops into the thick wood of the doorframe.

The other bodyguard, thrown off by the death of his compatriot, slashes clear in front of Bojask. Smeed’s arrow thunks into the wall on the opposite side of the doorframe.

Merimna  
Merimna doesn’t bothering trying to shoot around Bojask’s huge form in the doorway. She points at the living bodyguard instead.

“You work for me, now. Go kill your boss.”

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s spell turns the guard’s back to the three murder-cenaries. He rushes Smeed with his short sword, jabbing it into his boss’ side.

Smeed gapes in shock and pain.

Medomai  
Medomai points his own finger at the gaping boss.

“No attacking, now.”

DM  
Smeed lowers his fucking weapon as well as standing there gasping like a fish.

Bojask runs in to attack, but misjudges the distance due to the height of the bed. His axes cleave only mattress.

Merimna  
“Ahem? He’s still alive.”

DM: @Merimna  
The guard shanks his boss up the ribs yet again.

Smeed grunts, blood spraying from his mouth.

Medomai  
“Doing great, Smeed. Keep on keeping ‘em down.”

DM  
Bojask’s axe cleaves into Smeed’s chest. The moneylender falls dead onto his bedsheets.

His erstwhile bodyguards turns to run. Bojask sinks his axe between the man’s shoulder blades. The man drops dead.

Bojask hefts his greataxe free. He wipes both blades on the bedsheets.

Merimna  
Well, this is a scene.

“Is there evidence we ought to destroy?”

Medomai  
“We did kind of leave a mark. Everywhere.”

DM  
“Clean up?” Bojask snorts. “When we can just pin it on ol’ Clegg Zincher? You two get outta here. Saul’ll be waiting for you.”

Merimna  
Merimna shrugs. That’s that.

“A pleasure working with you, Bojask.”

Medomai  
Medomai pats the Varisian’s bulging bicep in passing.

“We look forward to our next encounter.”

DM  
Bojask grunts noncommittally, pulling suspect documents from his pack. As the bedroom door swings behind the half-elf dhampir siblings, they catch him throwing the documents into the air. The door shuts before the papers flutter to the floor.


	8. Log 8

DM  
Just as the Gold Goblin is closing for the night/early morning, two beautiful but ghastly pale half-elves enter through the front doors.

Serem  
Serem looks up from wiping down the golem table. An elf himself, he’s unphased by their appearance.

“Racaille, you wanna take this?” he calls out across the mostly empty gambling hall.

Then returns to his wiping.

Medomai  
Medomai takes a slow turn as he walks through the casino, admiring the wood, the glitter, and gold. He’s oblivious to the rank and file cleaning staff.

Racaille  
Racaille, ever the professional, steps in front of the two. He smiles even as he blocks their passage.

“Very sorry, but we’ve just closed. Please come back in the afternoon, however, and we’ll welcome you with open arms.”

Voe  
Voe, sweeping the stage, looks on at the scene. She’s never seen anyone so beautiful, much less two of them. Serem doesn’t count, of course--he’s a coworker.

Merimna  
Merimna smiles back at the under-informed underling in their path.

“We’re not here on gambling business. Call Saul. He ought to remember something.”

She pulls out a chair from the nearest table and takes a seat, lacing her fingers over her crossed knees. She and her brother aren’t going anywhere.

Serem  
Serem bursts into laughter. Wow. WOW. They were the murder-cleaners. Saul really had made good on Racaille’s throwaway suggestion.

The laughter stops as abruptly as it started. Right, this is coming out of their paychecks.

Medomai  
The burst of laughter catches Medomai’s attention. He stops, looking from Serem to Mina. He pulls out a chair beside hers but only leans his arms on the backrest, smiling as usual.

Racaille  
Racaille’s smile twitches. It breaks with a sigh.

“Voe, would you go call Saul, please?”

Voe  
“On it!”

She runs off the stage and up the stairs, taking her broom with her.

Merimna  
Merimna says nothing but smiles even more/less pleasantly. Isn’t it great when everyone does what they’re fucking told to do?

DM  
Saul comes down the stairs with Voe and Samaritha, the Varisian half-elf, in tow. Samaritha has stuck a pencil in her bun and carries a brand new floor manager’s clipboard under her arm.

Saul smiles back at the siblings, spreading his arms wide.

“Ah, there they are! Medomai, Merimna, I trust the job went well?”

Serem  
The clipboard immediately catches Serem’s eye. His brows raise in surprise. He looks from its holder to Racaille.

Medomai  
“Very. Bojask’s putting on the final touches as we speak.”

DM: @Medomai  
“Wonderful!”

Saul tosses two small pouch of coins, one to Medomai and one to Merimna.

“You know, this could be the start of quite an operation, if you’re interested in more permanent employment.”

Racaille  
Racaille doesn’t even blink as the pouches fly past his nose. His glare is fixed on that tattooed backstabber Samaritha. She’d been here all of what, a week? And she’d somehow managed to get promoted to floor manager over ALL the other senior employees?

He conveniently ignores the memory of his, Serem, and Voe’s insubordination before tonight’s shift and stews in silence.

Voe  
Voe quirks an eyebrow at Saul’s offer. As nice as it might be to have the two around the casino, it seemed unlikely a couple of murderers would want to work here in a casino.

Merimna  
Merimna holds the pouch in her lap. Her fingers feel the coins through the fabric, subtly counting her gold.

“What’d you have in mind?”

DM  
“It seems I’ve been ruffling a few feathers recently. I could use some extra protection for myself and my crew here. You’d be working under Bojask, my head of security--not actually under our new floor manager Samaritha here.”

Serem  
That’s true enough--neither the Clegg Zincher incident or Larur’s murder had been Saul’s fault. But Serem can’t help feeling like the gambling hall operation is getting shadier by the minute.

Medomai  
“What’s the pay?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Twenty gold a week plus room and board if you want it. Though you’d be sharing the room with these three.”

Saul jerks his chin at Racaille, Serem, and Voe.

Racaille  
New floor manager Samaritha--that’s all Racaille hears of the conversation. Fine. Fine! If that’s what Saul wants, he can shove it up his ass for all Racaille cares.

Racaille straightens his spine and squares his shoulders. He’s free of his own debt with Smeed out of the way, which makes the Gold Goblin just one temporary stop on the employment train.

Voe  
Voe’s face heats at the thought of the half-elves sharing the room with them. They wouldn’t technically be coworkers, being under different managers and all.

Merimna  
As it happened, Merimna and Meda had been looking for more stable employment. At least until they’d had their fill of Riddleport.

“That sounds perfect...except for the salary. We’ll do it for thirty gold a week and no less.”

DM  
Saul lowers his arms with a weary nod.

“Yes, fine, alright. It’s done.”

Serem  
“Welcome to the Gold Goblin,” Serem shrugs.

Try not to get killed.

Medomai  
Medomai shakes the elf’s hand whether they were profering it or not.

“Thanks, friend. We look forward to working with you, if in spirit only.”

Racaille  
Great, another couple of employees who’d doubtlessly meet their deaths here. Well, at least they were certified assholes. He offers them a slightly reduced version of his trademark grin.

“Likewise, mates.”

Voe  
“Welcome!” Voe barks before she can moderate her pitch. “This is Racaille, Serem, and I’m Voe. Um, will you be staying with us?”

Merimna  
Merimna throws up a hand and giggles behind her fingers. She hadn’t bargained an extra ten gold a week to board at a cheap casino.

“No, dear. It’s a pleasure to meet you, nonetheless.”

She’d already forgotten the aasimar’s name.

\--/--

DM  
Two weeks after the Smeed incident, Saul calls Racaille, Serem, Voe, Medomai, and Merimna into his office before breakfast. He’s received word that his shipment of tier-1, expensive-ass liquor has arrived at the docks. It currently awaits offloading aboard the cog Foamrunner, which has docked at the wharves. 

“I need you to pick up the four casks and bring them back here. You’ve got to be quick, see? Or any one of our crimelords will claim the casks for themself.”

Racaille  
Looks like there’d be no breakfast today. Racaille’s stomach rumbles in protest. He stays quiet, crossing his arms over the noisemaker.

Voe  
Voe snaps to attention, face burning. It’d been two weeks since she’d seen the half-elves. She’d forgotten how eeriely attractive they are.

“Right, we’ll go straight away,” she nods.

Merimna  
Merimna rises from her seat and slings her bow across her back.

“Ready when you are,” she manages to say without yawning.

Bojask’s wake-up call had come far too early. She and Meda hadn’t even been able to take their morning tea.

Medomai  
Medomai blinks languidly. Only Mina’s rising tells him that the talking’s over. He hasn’t heard a word.

Medomai stands up after her, smiling at the others on habit alone.

“Shall we?”

Serem  
Serem stretches up off the wall. He rocks from his heels to the balls of his feet. An alcohol escort quest--this should be good.

“We shall.”

DM  
You arrive at the docked Foamrunner just in time to find the dockworkers loading the last cask of alcohol into a small wagon. The three, unfamiliar burly men standing around looking menacing by the wagon clearly don’t work for Saul.

Racaille  
Racaille groans. So early and yet still so late. He’s not caffeinated enough for this.

Voe  
Voe walks up to the three with a little wave.

“Excuse me, good morning. I’m afraid there’s been a mix up. Those casks are actually property of the Gold Goblin.”

DM: @Voe  
The largest of the three, a pale-faced Taldan in heavy, steel armor, snorts derisively at Voe.

“I paid the captain two hundred gold for these casks. Therefore, they’re mine. Now stand aside, you’re blocking the road.”

Merimna  
Merimna rolls her eyes. Of course he had--it was called a bribe.

Her eyes stop rolling. She drops her head. She’d completely forgotten to implant tricks in anyone but herself.

“This is what happens on a tea-less Monday,” she mutters.

Medomai  
Medomai pats his sister’s shoulder encouragingly and steps in beside the shoulder-height aasimar. If diplomacy isn’t going to work, perhaps they need to try something a little stronger.

He flings up his crossbow, the loaded bolt pointed straight between the leader’s eyes.

“Unless you’d like to pay us with your life, you’re handing over the casks. And the wagon.”

They had, unfortunately, forgotten to bring one of their own. With four casks, that meant either he or Mina would be carrying.

DM: @Medomai  
A steel-gloved fist closes around Medomai’s crossbow. The leader forces the weapon down out of his face to the cobblestone street. His face twists into a disgusted sneer.

“Lads! Let’s show this pansy-ass half-breed and his band of maggot-brained turnips what happens when you tangle with the underworld.”

Roll initiative.

Serem  
Serem shifts in the blink of an eye, growing horns, hooves, and claws. He moves into line with Voe and Medomai and instinctively claws at the throat of the leader.

DM: @Serem  
One claw scores a shallow mark, but the second glances off the leader’s banded mail.

Racaille  
Racaille, already in the back row, moves further back. The murder twins picked this fight. It’s time to see what they can do.

DM  
The leader roars and strikes back at Serem, but having planned to stab his longsword into Medomai, his aim is off. The blade cuts only air.

His two partners in crime step around to the either side of Voe and Medomai up front. They whip out their shortswords as they shift into position but can’t land their blows either.

Merimna  
Merimna snarls at Racaille but backs up with him out of necessity. She aims at the guard by Medomai. Fires.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s arrow pierces straight into one of the man’s temples and out the other. He falls dead into the water.

Voe  
Fuck, had things gotten out of hand fast. Voe draws her cutlass and slashes at the leader.

Medomai  
Fuck, Medomai had to get out of there to shoot. He shifts back and fires.

DM: @Voe and Medomai  
Voe’s not cutting through that armor. Medomai doesn’t need to. His bolt punches straight through the leader’s throat and out the other side. The leader follows his subordinate in the water.

Serem  
Serem shifts back to usual, good-natured elfin self.

Racaille  
Racaille nods at Merimna, grudgingly impressed. The murder-twins had earned the nickname he’s never gonna say to their faces.

DM  
The remaining guard flees around Voe’s side, giving her a free hit if she wants it.

Voe  
Voe lets him go.

Merimna  
Merimna doesn’t. She takes aim at the back of his neck.

DM: @Merimna and Racaille  
The arrow strikes the guard down in the middle of street. The small but growing morning crowd flees.

The only one who remains is a silver-haired elf. Indigo tattoos whorl down the bronze length of his arm. 

Racaille recognizes him as the one who’d glared daggers at the samsaran elf Geleafa for no apparent reason. He’s currently glaring daggers at Serem.

The dockworkers, meanwhile, stand stockstill in front of the Foamrunner, their gaping mouths catching flies.

Voe  
Voe clears her throat.

“That, ah, that was a bit of bad business there, but we of the Gold Goblin don’t condone underworld activities. We refuse to take part in any collusion of the sort. That’s why we had to do it to them. It’s our moral duty as upstanding citizens and all.”

Oh shit.

Medomai  
Dayum, that was bad. There’s literally nothing Medomai can say that’s gonna fix that, so he lifts his crossbow again.

“You’re gonna forget everything except that part about us being upstanding citizens, or we’ll be taking our moral duty out on you.”

DM  
Voe’s failed diplomacy may’ve turned the dockworkers toward riot, but Medomai’s intimidation brings them right back into line.

“Please don’t kill us with your moral duty, upstanding citizens--we won’t say nothing!”

Serem  
“Sure, that’d be very difficult anyway. You’re saving us the trouble. Have a good morning.”

He waves the dockworkers off, oblivious to the daggers being glared into his back.

Racaille  
Racaille shakes his head. Unbelievable. If there’s anyone to be suspicious of/disapprove of here, it’s the cadaver-skinned murder-twins, not fursona Serem--there’d be a lot of that in the elves’ Mierani Forest anyway.

He walks over to give that guy a piece of his mind.

“Morning, mate. Listen, if you’ve got a problem with one of my coworkers, I’d appreciate if you said something because you’re looking kinda racist against your own kind.”

Merimna  
Merimna is about to glare death at that coward Racaille himself when he goes off and picks a fight with the judgemental stranger. If he’s going to get his ass kicked, she’d rather watch in amusement.

Voe  
“Please just get back to work.”

As soon as the dockworkers are gone, Voe turns her head with the stiffness of a rusty screw toward Medomai. She has no words.

Yes, they’d come for four casks and come away with four casks and a small wagon, but she’d hardly call it a success. Three men were dead.

Medomai  
“You’re welcome,” says Medomai, turning on his heel.

He walks over to join Mina with a bounce in his step. Mission accomplished.


	9. Log 9

DM  
The tattooed elf turns his devastating frown onto Racaille. A thoughtful frown. He opens his mouth to speak when an ear-shredding metallic screech drowns out the entire morning bustle of the wharf.

Every weather vane on every roof near and far turns to point directly towards the unnatural shadow in the sky, the Blot. In doing so, they resist the actual currents of the wind, which are beginning to pick up themselves.

Roaring cross winds whip your hair and loose fabrics back and forth over your skin and rage in your ears. They snap weather vanes from the roofs, which rain down heavy and metal into the streets.

Any remaining crowds run for shelter as the wind tears away their screams. In the chaos, the elf has disappeared.

Serem  
All that pointy weather vane rain is bad news for their wooden casks of alcohol. Serem grabs the loaded wagon and transforms into his stronger, bull chimera shape. He points at the nearest ally and pulls.

DM: @Serem  
With the strength of a hundred oxen, Serem practically fucking carries the wagon to safety like a father would his child.

Voe  
Voe’s not gonna lie to herself. Damn, that was kinda scary but also kinda hot. Her face burns as she runs to join him and the cargo in the alley.

DM: @Voe  
Distracted as Voe is, a hurtling weather vane tears a gash through her leg with its rusted rooster claws. Voe falls in the street.

Racaille  
“Voe!” Racaille shouts whether anyone can hear him or not.

He runs over to help her up.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille deftly dodges the rain of weather vanes crashing into the cobblestones in his wake. He makes it to Voe’s side unscathed.

Merimna  
Merimna runs into the alley, shaking her head. Why that little aasimar thought she had time to stand around admiring dumb muscle Merimna would never understand.

Medomai  
Medomai runs past Racaille and Voe and straight to the alley. There’d be time for healing after everyone’s all out of what counted as an environmental hazard in Riddleport these days.

DM: @Merimna and Medomai  
The weather vanes are no match for Merimna’s speed, but a rusted black arrowhead catches Medomai over the eyebrow.

Serem  
“You can do it!” Serem shouts into the wind.

If they can’t, he readies to run back out there. Maybe a third body exposed to the hailing metal would make some kind of a difference.

Voe  
Voe stands with Racaille’s help, squeezing his hand in a “thanks” that would otherwise go unheard. She runs for the alley, for real this time.

Racaille  
Racaille runs after her.

DM: @Voe and Racaille  
Voe makes it without any further clobberings. Racaille, however, gets gouged across the arm for his good deeds.

Merimna  
Merimna leans against the brick wall of the alley, hands in her pockets. That is why you never help anyone. Racaille had seemed like the street-savy sort to have already known that, but Merimna had clearly overestimated him.

Medomai  
Medomai rolls up his colorful, floral print sleeves. He’s got a second day-job to do.

He touches the blade of his to the red-painted line of his nose. Healing magic surges through him. The gash over his eyebrow stitches shut.

Racaille’s next. With a touch on the shoulder, Medomai seals his gouged arm. Then he crouches beside Voe and sets his lavender-nailed fingertips on the back of her calf. That should do it.

Serem  
Serem quirks an eyebrow at Medomai’s almost inappropriate manhandling of his coworkers. Then again, he’s no healer himself. Maybe you did have to get right up in the wound to be effective.

Voe  
“Thanks,” Voe mumbles uselessly, her face on fire.

Despite the raging winds, she doesn’t dare to look down to let Medomai read her lips. He’d likely read a lot more than she’s ready to confront at this point in her life.

Racaille  
Racaille rolls up his sleeve not to look a gift horse in the mouth so much as to see and believe. Yep, good as new. 

That was not what he’d ever have expected to come out of one of the murder-twins. It could be a handy way to tell them apart--the useful one and the expendable one.

Merimna  
Merimna smiles to herself from her place along the wall. That’s her brother, kicking and repairing ass. None of these other slobs would ever get up to Meda’s level.

Medomai  
Medomai stands, dusting the alley off himself. He catches Mina’s eye and gives her the slightest tilt of his head. All in a day’s work.

DM  
The foul wind and weather vane rain die down merely ten minutes after they began. You make it back to the Gold Goblin with all four casks and the new little wagon safely in tow. Saul is so pleased that everyone gets a fifty gold bonus on this week’s paycheck.

Despite having stung Clegg Zincher and whoever it was that morning at the cask-collecting, no retribution falls upon the Gold Goblin. Perhaps the other crimelords appreciate having moneylender Lymas Smeed out of the way as much as Saul did.

A month after the cask incident, everyone, including Medomai and Merimna of the security detail, happens to be inside the Gold Goblin just after closing hours and the last of the customers have been ushered out. It’s a rare occasion and for some, perhaps an opportunity.

Voe  
Voe stands upon the stage, sweeping. She’s gotten better at the lyre. Better at reading sheet music, anyway. She glances at the instrument on the tall stool beside her and sighs. One of these days… 

Serem  
Serem looks up from wiping down the golem table just in time to see Voe’s frustrated sigh. He shakes his head in amusement. 

No one could be happy holding themselves up to the standard of an actual angel. But she’s young, at least 150 years younger than himself. Better let her take a hundred and learn for herself.

Racaille  
In the shadows of the rafters, Racaille leans on the rail of the catwalk over the gambling hall. A month and change has been long enough for him cool over Samaritha’s traitorous promotion grabbing. In all that time, he’d never congratulated her.

He should do that. And maybe get in a few words about the current undermanaged state of the casino. 

He leaves the rail for her swanky new office.

DM: @Racaille  
Samaritha sits at her desk, pouring over multiple pages from her clipboard. She taps her pencil to the desktop as Racaille enters and sticks it into her bun.

“Racaille, what can I do for ya?” she asks smiling.

Medomai  
Medomai crosses and uncrosses his legs on the overstuffed chair in Saul’s office. He’s used to Saul calling in him and Mina at any odd hour, but it’s unusual for Saul to keep them waiting like this.

Merimna  
Merimna, leaning on elbow on Meda’s backrest, absently ruffles her little brother’s hair. She’s bored as fuck as well, but it’s not like they could lay some hot coals under their boss’ toes. 

Merimna takes a drag on from the end of her cigarette holder. She lowers it into Meda’s reach, smoke streaming dragon-like from her nostrils.

DM: @Medomai and Merimna  
The door of Saul’s office swings open. In walks the man himself, Old Scratch sneering from his shoulder. A flick of the imp’s tail shuts the door. Which muffles the sound of a glass-shattering crash.

Saul dives behind his desk on wings of adrenaline. His eyes meet Medomai and Merimna’s.

“The fuck are you waiting for? Go check out the gods-damned crash!”

DM: @Voe and Serem  
Voe and Serem have inadvertently reserved front row sees to the crash. A group of four muscular masked men led by a half-orc have broken into the gambling hall through the front windows. A group of three less bulked-up men have broken in through the windows by the stage. The groups charge at Serem and Voe respectively, weapons drawn.

Merimna  
“Patience,” Merimna hisses, putting the red end of the cigarette out with a pinch of her fingers.

She touches an ashen fingertip to Medomai’s forehead and implants the shadow clone trick.

Medomai  
“Thanks, Mina.”

As soon as she’s finished, he sneaks to the door for a stealthy check out into the hall.

DM: @Medomai  
Unfortunately, Medomai hasn’ yet adjusted to the weight of his brand new armor. The metal breastplate clangs bell-like against the doorframe, sending reverb down the hall.

A group of two muscled masked men led by an even more powerfully built half-orc stares at Medomai from the near end of the hall. Another group of two masked beefcakes led by a half-orc stares at Medomai from the opposite end of the hall by floor manager Samaritha’s office.

Medomai has successfully drawn both groups down upon him with a vengeance. They charge at full speed, all attempts at stealth forsaken.

Racaille  
Racaille opens his mouth. Shuts it. He pokes his head out to investigate the crash and clang. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. He draws his shortsword just in time to take a swing at the half-orc charging by.

“Hey manager, you might want to take a look at this.”

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille manages to pull off the legendary technique known as the bladed clothesline on the unfortunate half-orc. His head flies off his falling body.

“Ulp. I think I’ve seen enough,” says Samaritha, backing away to the flimsy safety of her desk.

Serem  
Serem shifts into his chimeric bull form and strikes at the half-orc leader apparent.

DM  
The leader is leader for a reason. Serem’s blow goes awry.

The five attackers fall upon Serem as ruthless as a pack of starving wolves. Only two blades manage to pierce through his guard.

Voe is left to contend with three attackers of her own. Only one blade finds a chink in her armor, but the rapier pierces deep into her side.

Voe  
Voe screams and in doing so, turns her pain to raging song. An electric current crackles under its raw, wordless violence.

DM  
Medomai is besieged by a maelstrom of metal, but only one blow manages to break through his guard. Critically. But as soon as the leader’s fist enters Medomai’s space, Merimna’s trick triggers.

A perfect clone of Medomai takes the full force of the blow. It shatters into the nothingness from whence it came.

Merimna  
Merimna stays in the office between the door and Saul’s office but aims into the melee. She’s been practicing.

DM: @Merimna  
She has. The arrow pierces an attacker through the heart, knocking the five down to four.

Medomai  
“Stand down!” Medomai hisses at the leader.

DM: @Medomai  
The massive half-orc actually does lower his fists.

Racaille  
Racaille runs down the hall after the intruders with a spring in his step. Finally! Someone not him is about to get backstabbed.

Or not. Fuck. At least he didn’t stab himself.

Serem  
Serem takes Voe up on the free rage, roaring back. He tears at the leader again, claws crackling with electricity.

DM  
And...it’s the fucking leader. Serem’s gotta really hone his claws if he wants to hit. The five strike as brutally as five bullies ganging up on the class runt.

Only the half-orc leader manages to land a stab, and it’s a doozy. Blood splatters out from Serem’s chest.

The three attackers stab at Voe. One catches her in the gut. As he pulls out the blade, her raging song stops short. Her fallen body bleeds out onto the floor.

Upstairs, the leader remains bound by Medomai’s word and unable to attack. The others pound down on the half-elf. A single rapier critically stabs into his side.

Merimna  
Fuck these douchemasks. She fires at the nearest.

DM: @Merimna  
Her arrow cleaves into the douchemask’s skull, reducing the douche-count to three.

Medomai  
“Doing great, Mr. Leader. Keep it up.”

DM: @Medomai  
Due to extremely poor luck, he does.

Racaille  
They had their backs to Racaille and everything--he HAD to do it to them this time.

DM: @Racaille  
Yes, Racaille finally pulls off the relatively common technique known as a backstab, but he does it with such aplomb that the nearest douchemask falls to the ground in two pieces.

Which leaves a single douchemask and the frozen-dinner leader for dessert.

Serem  
Serem blinks. Voe’s song is gone, replaced by an empty vacuum of sound. He claws without thinking. His mind is as blank as his stare.

DM  
In Serem’s state of eerie calm, he cuts a sweeping arc down the leader’s centerline. The leader opens like an overripe fruit spraying a fine mist of his red juice.

The four remaining are so demoralized by his death that they can’t land a single blow. One nearly lets the sword fly out of his hand.

The last of the douchemasks turns on Racaille and slashes through his arm.

Merimna  
“Save it for the unlife, buster,” Merimna snarks at the douche on Racaille.

She fires her arrow.

DM: @Merimna  
That could be a very long wait. Seeing as he dies without ever meeting a necromancer.

Medomai  
Finally, momentarily free of the combat, Medomai sets the blade of his hand to the line of his nose. He looses a surge of healing.

Racaille  
“Get flanked, mate.”

He slashes and backstabs into the leader.

Serem  
Serem doesn’t wait for the attackers to get their wits together. He attacks, viciously.

DM  
Serem claws out the throat of an attacker. The gory death is the last straw. The three break rank and run, leaving their backs open to Serem.

The frozen leader barely grunts at Racaille’s slash. But he unfreezes.

The leader roars at Racaille and swings his iron fists, pummelling into the rogue’s chest. Ribs snap. Racaille’s heart stops.

Merimna  
Merimna curses. She lays a hand on her brother’s back, an emergency implant.

Medomai  
Medomai curses. He lays his hand on Racaille’s chest.

“Get back up and get stabby,” he growls under his breath.

Serem  
Serem leaves them, instead running up the stairs to check out out the clanging commotion there. If the route takes him past the boss, he attacks without a second thought.

DM  
Serem’s claws rake down the enemy boss’ back, drawing his undvided attention. Only one of the half-orc’s iron fists hits, but it’s enough to nearly knock the bleeding consciousness out of Serem.

Merimna  
With her brother as safe as he can be, Merimna takes up her bow once more.

“Eat shit.”

Medomai  
People really had to stop fucking dying before they killed their gods-damned marks. Medomai lays a preventative hand on Serem.

Racaille  
Racaille’s eyes snap open. He’s on the floor for some--combat, right. He drags himself away from the heat, wincing at the sharp protest of his tender ribs.

Serem  
Serem barely notices the wave of healing licking at his wounds. He growls like a dog and tears both claws into the boss.

DM  
Merimna’s arrow lodges deep into the leader’s shoulder. He reels back. Right into Serem’s waiting claws.

In a single cross-slash, Serem tears the boss’ neck open from both sides. The half-orc drops, head rolling.


	10. Log 10

DM  
The leaders of the attack on the Gold Goblin are all dead. The vandalized, body-littered gambling hall falls into heavy, heated silence.

“It’s quiet out there,” calls Saul from his office, breaking the silence. “Is it over?”

Merimna  
“No,” says Merimna, rolling her eyes. “Stay in your office and let us do a sweep first.”

Getting out of crime really dulled the mind, didn’t it?

“Meda and I will sweep east. Racaille, Serem, head west and for the love of fuck, please use your eyes.”

Medomai  
Medomai ever-so-slightly winces. Of course Mina would be on edge after such a close call, but that still seemed a bit harsh given Racaille and Serem had both taken the aggro off him. That couldn’t be in their run-of-the-mill casino job descriptions, more like--

“Has anyone seen Bojask?”

Racaille  
“Yeah, Saul, where the fuck’s your head of security?” Racaille grumbles from the floor.

He grunts in pain but drags himself up to his feet, holding his side.

DM: @Medomai and Racaille  
“Here,” growls Bojask from the stairwell.

He stomps up and into the light. Bloody stabs and gashes cover his battered body.

“Got jumped in the alley out back. Now clear, by the way.”

Serem  
“No, no, wait!”

His claws shift as he reaches for Medomai, supple elven fingers seizing the half-elf by the straps of his armor.

“Voe, she’s--come down with me.”

Merimna  
Merimna exchanges a glance with Meda. Bojask is here, mostly. Voe isn’t, and from the little they knew of her, she’s a lot softer.

“Serem, my brother isn’t a miracle worker.”

Medomai  
If Voe’s case is as lost as Mina expects, that’s about as nice a let down as Serem’s gonna get. Medomai gives Serem a slight, affirmative tilt of the head.

“Take me to her. The rest of you should definitely still perform that sweep.”

Racaille  
Voe… 

Racaille’s hands curl to fists, his teeth clenching. In his heart, he knows. 

Voe was too soft and innocent for this life--she never could’ve survived. If it wasn’t this attack, it would’ve been the next bad business run or the next. Just a matter of fucking time before they’re all dead, all but beef-jerky Bojask and the murder-twins, anyway.

He raises his head and blinks back his burning tears.

“Bojask, I’ll go west with you.”

Serem  
The second Medomai finishes speaking, Serem runs with him by the hand down to the empty place between the bar and the stage.

DM: @Merimna and Racaille  
The sweepers find nothing but dead bodies, broken glass, and jimmied locks. They circle back to the upstairs hall.

“Looks like a joint hit,” says Bojask, rolling a half-orc body over with his foot. “Boss Croat’s boys are all half-orcs, but most are these are human. My money’s on Clegg.”

DM: @Medomai and Serem  
Voe lies between the bar and the stage in a wide pool like a dark, rounded rug of her own blood. Medomai can tell from the slightly raised look of the sticky fluid that it’s reached its farthest spread--Voe has completely bled out.

Merimna  
“The joint hit was a complete failure. You know Croat and Clegg better than we do. Will they stand down? Or hit back harder?”

DM: @Merimna  
“They’ll both have to recoup,” says Bojask. “The next months should be quiet with them picking on easier marks.”

By this point, Saul and Samaritha have dared to poke their heads out from their respective offices.

“Is it safe to come out?” asks Saul.

Medomai  
Medomai sinks to one knee just outside the pool of blood. He looks up at Serem for once without a trace of his perpetual smile. He gives the elf the slightest shake of his head.

Racaille  
“I guess,” Racaille shrugs, already heading down the stairs.

He takes them one dreaded step at a time.

Serem  
Serem inhales sharply, blinking as though he’d been slapped in the face. Just like that, Voe was dead, her life snuffed like a candle in the wind. He’d been right there...right there…

DM  
Saul and Samaritha follow Racaille down to check out the damage. Medomai and Serem draw their attention, but they freeze at the sight of Voe.

Samaritha throws both hands over her mouth. She staggers backward, bumping into the bar.

Saul simply slumps. More wrinkles than anyone could count line his haggard face.

“Back to the old hiring board,” he mutters flatly.

Merimna  
What else could they do? In the end, Voe was one in a long line of interchangeable employees--nothing to lose sleep over.

Merimna offers her brother a hand up.

Racaille  
Before he can stop himself, Racaille scoffs at Saul’s callous resignation. Not that it’d hurt his chances at promotion. He’s actually glad it’s Samaritha and not himself so invested in Saul’s decisions.

“Next time try to pick someone who’s dipped at least a toe in the underworld, would you mate?”

DM: @Racaille  
Saul continues to mutter under his breath, but Racaille picks up something like “those are the pricey bitches”.

Medomai  
Medomai takes Mina’s hand up. Looks like they’re done here.

“Saul, we’ll be up in the office about that business. The rest of you, good night. Enjoy the cleaning.”

Serem  
Medomai’s good night remarks bring Serem back to the gambling hall, the space between the bar and the stage. Right. They had to clean to close.

“Good night,” he says distantly.

He goes off to get a mop.

\--/--

DM  
As the new floor manager of the Gold Goblin, Saul has tasked Samaritha with hiring Voe’s replacement, “the cheapest one you can find”. The new potential hire, “Bruiser”, has set up their interview at the Boneyard, which, unfortunately, is not a bar.

The deceptively named salt marsh actually serves as the city’s dump and ship graveyard rather than the intended final resting place for the once-living. There are, however, enough corpses that end up here to give most city graveyards a run for their money. To avoid joining them, Samaritha borrows Medomai and Merimna from Bojask for protection.

The night winds have died and a light mist rises from between the old hulks and ships’ ribs that protrude from the swampy ground. Ahead is a flickering globe of light centered around a rigging that pierces the surface of the water. Dangling from the boom is a single lantern. 

A dark-cloaked humanoid stands at the edge of the light. They’re shorter, shorter, and curvier than Samaritha expected. She steps out from behind Medomai and Merimna to stand slightly in front of them instead.

“Are you Bruiser?”

Ruran  
“I--yes.”

The genderneutral half-elf taps their fingertips together in the darkness. They take a deep breath. And deflate. Another deep breath.

“Hi, I’m Bruiser. Uh, lovely weather,” they cackle nervously, fingers tapping double-time. “Perhaps I should just--”

There’s a reason Ruran’s selling their brains but most likely manual labor for a paltry eight gold a week. The same reason they got fired from their last gig at an actual city graveyard.

Ruran raises one hand and flicks the hood off their face. Even the edge of the light is enough to bring out the solid white of their eyes, the silvery white of their pageboy cut, and a bruise-like, yellow-purple sheen over their black, liquid ink skin.

“Ta-da,” they grin, sheepish and strained.

Medomai  
Medomai raises an eyebrow. That sheen would explain the nickname.

“Look, we’re not racists if that’s what you’re afraid of, but you’ve applied to work at a casino with a wet bar. There could be racists and worse.”

He mimes a grabby hand.

Ruran: @Medomai  
Ruran cringes at the pantomime. They’d deal with that when they got to it. If they didn’t completely blow this interview.

“I don’t usually look like this--I mean, I do, this is my real face--but I’ve got this spell…”

Ruran sets their fingertips together and presses their palms flat. Their Varisian father’s olive-brown skin spreads down the straight line of their hands. It coats over the liquid darkness of their skin, seeming to push the color into their eyes and hair instead.

Merimna  
“Neat trick,” says Merimna dryly. “But you’d better have more of those up your sleeves. The last employee in your position died on the job, a common workplace hazard at the Gold Goblin it seems.”

DM  
Samaritha spares a moment to stare at Merimna aghast for scaring the cheapest candidate in Riddleport with the truth before smoothing it over.

“Yeah, sure, but we’re in a lull right now, a ceasefire. Of the crossfire. From the Riddleport crimelords. So it’s all good--you’ll have time to complete all the employee training you’ll need. Do you, ah, know anything about working in a gambling hall?”

Ruran  
If the Gold Goblin has a wet bar, then it probably has food service as well. Ruran cracks their knuckles, confident for the first time since this interview began.

“I know how to bus a table. Wash dishes. Behind the scenes stuff like that is kinda my forte.”

Medomai  
Bruiser was a pair of hands. In the end, what more could Saul expect from the cheapest hire in the underworld.

“I’d say, ‘Congrats! You’re hired’, but I don’t want to steal our dear Samaritha’s thunder.”

Merimna  
Merimna chuckles behind her hand. Meda is such a card.

DM  
A soft whistling cuts through the night and fog. An arrow shoots at Ruran’s head. Ruran’s mage armored aura hardens in an instant. The arrow plinks harmlessly off their forehead.

A second arrow glances off of Merimna’s leaf armor. A third sails over Medomai’s head.

Samaritha ducks, throwing her arms over her own head.

“Who’s shooting at us at night in the middle of a freaking swamp?”

Unlike Samaritha, Ruran, Medomai, and Merimna have the darkvision to pick out three hunched humanoids in the surrounding reeds. Their faces are rat-like with coarse fur poking out beneath their studded leather armor.

The three lower their shortbows to fling three sacks at Ruran, Medomai, and Merimna. Merimna deftly dodges the curiously projectile, but Ruran and Medomai aren’t so lucky.

The bags explode, tar, resin, and mystery goo splattering all over the two. The mixture, smelling of meat, hardens instantly. Ruran and Medomai are glued where they stand.

Medomai  
This is somehow not the worst thing that Medomai has been completely coated in. Still--

“Fuck you!” says Medomai, drawing his crossbow on the nearest ratface.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai shoots...he scores! But the long, coarse fur blunts the damage, and the ratface stays on their feet.

Ruran  
“Oh, fuck me,” Ruran whines.

This is definitely the worst concoction to ever coat them. They’ll have to burn this outfit just to cleanse themself of the memory. If they don’t fucking die first.

Ruran clenches their teeth against the sticky icky and pulls a tiny, leather-stitched poppet out of their pocket. They aim it toward the ratface responsible for the stinking glue.

“All the hard feelings. All of them.”

DM: @Ruran  
And boy is the ratface feeling them tonight. Ethereal strings shoot from the poppet. They tangle around the ratface’s spine.

As Ruran shakes the poppet, the ratface’s spine rattles and jerks inside the creature’s body. The ratface screams in agony. Their spine can take no more. It snaps. Mercifully(?) ending their suffering.

Merimna  
Merimna’s mouth purses into a tongue-sucking frown. This encounter just took the first and second-place most disgusting things to happen tonight. At the very least, they’d confirmed the new hire could hold their revolting own.

She whips out her longbow and fires at the wounded ratface.

“I hoped you’re pleased with the way this encounter is working out for you.”

DM  
Merimna will never know, seeing as her arrow guts the ratface’s brain before they get the chance to respond.

The murky shallows of the swamp bubble and churn mud underfoot. As disgusting as this is for everyone, things are about to get infinitely worse.

A swarm of Riddleport’s infamous flesh-eating cockroaches erupts out from the waters below Medomai, drawn by the rancid meat goo. They chew into his feet. Samaritha vomits into the reeds.

The sole, remaining ratface draws a dagger. They charge straight at the defenseless, vomiting Samaritha.

A second soft whistling cuts through the night and fog. An arrow shanks into the ratface’s arm, throwing off their aim and balance.

Again, only Medomai, Ruran, and Merimna can pick out the archer, a silver-haired elf with indigo tattoos whorling down his bronze-skinned arm.

Medomai  
Medomai grits his slightly pointed teeth as the cockroaches chew into him. He’s gotta get out of this fucking meat glue before they perform a literal backwater amputation.

DM: @Medomai  
Try as he might, the hardened meat glue is just too strong. One might say super strong.

Ruran  
As gross as their spell was for everyone involved, Ruran regrets not having prepared a second to take care of this last ratface before those cockroaches chewed a hole into their new coworker. Or were the ratfaces and cockroaches not officially allies?

“Gah, focus Ruran!” they say before they can stop themself. “I mean Bruiser--focus Bruiser!”

Ruran slaps a hand at the last of the ratfaces.

DM: @Ruran  
As soon as Ruran’s fingers touch the creature, the ratface’s skin tears apart with moderately but sufficiently lethal wounds. They splash and sink into the cockroach-churning murk.

Merimna  
“Samaritha, I swear to fuck, this is the last time we’re doing a wilderness date,” Merimna growls, drawing a dagger.

She hacks and slashes at the meat glue holding Meda prisoner.

“Hey you! Hot mystery elf! We could use some of that muscle over here, or are you just for show?”

DM  
Samaritha, only recently recovered from her retching, blushes and stammers. She does, however, keep enough wits about her to attack the goo with her own dagger.

Hot mystery elf bounds over the swamp grass into the edge of the light. He has time for one seething glare at Ruran before attacking the glue with a third dagger.

Meanwhile, the cockroaches continue to gnaw into Medomai’s flesh.

Medomai  
Medomai’s skin teases out a full-body sweat, more from nausea than actual pain. He smiles weakly against his rising bile and slashes at the goo.

DM: @Medomai  
The combined dagger-strikes punch a massive crack through the hardened meat glue. It breaks like shattered clay, freeing Medomai from its stinking grasp. 

The cockroaches are content to chew these fun-sized fragments.

Ruran  
One coworker free--great! But Ruran got a racist vibe off the tattooed guy who must’ve been eavesdropping on. Hot or not, they cringe asking for help.

“Uh, guys? Can I get some of that dagger action?”

Their own sickle is pretty much just bouncing off the top of the meat plaster.

Merimna  
“Oh, right.”

Merimna turns her dagger to Bruiser/Ruran’s aid.

DM  
“Of course! Of course!” says Samaritha.

She wipes her mouth and leaps into dagger action.

Hot mystery elf continues to only regard Ruran with a violet-eyed glare. He crouches unnecessarily close to their boots in the gunk.

“Hold still.”

He stabs less than an inch from Ruran’s foot, but it does the trick. Ruran’s glue breaks into more fun-sized meat candies for the cockroaches.


	11. Log 11

DM  
Samaritha grabs her new hire’s arm and pulls Ruran well out of reach of the flesh-eating swarm.

“Thank Lady Luck that’s over. I know it’s a lot more mundane, but how’s everyone feel about taking the rest of this interview to a tavern?”

Medomai  
Medomai shakes out one sore, flesh-chomped leg over the swamp grass. Then the other.

“I could use a drink or three.”

Or ten.

Ruran  
“Ahah, the interview’s not over?” Ruran cackles weakly, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

And was that an open invite? They glance at hot mystery elf who must’ve seen their true, ink-skinned form. 

If that guy is suddenly a part of this operation, they’re gonna need some explanations. As desperate as Ruran is for work, they’re happy to put their table-busing to use elsewhere.

Merimna  
Merimna leans a hand on Samaritha’s shoulder.

“I know I speak for all of us when I say, we must have booze. We must have it now. And we aren’t paying for it.”

DM  
Hot mystery elf opens his mouth as though about to contradict Merimna. He thinks better and smarter of it, however, and shuts up.

Samaritha opens her mouth. A deeper still and quiet descends upon the marsh with a glacial chill.

Birds, hundreds, thousands of them burst squawking from their nests into the air. White gull feathers rain down from their cacophonous spiral. They wheel, shrieking, higher and tighter into what can only be described as a proper bird-nado.

Their unnatural, accursed flight pattern bows and bends off the ground toward the Cyphergate...and the Blot in the sky above.

“No, yeah, I’ll fund a whole gods-damned bender,” says Samaritha. “Let’s get out of here.”

Samaritha takes you to Mystery of the Gate, the grandiose/pretentious inn and tavern favored by scholars who study Riddleport’s Cyphergate, the arch rising 350 feet over the water etched with unintelligible glyphs.

“I actually came to Riddleport to join the Cyphermages but I, uh, got deferred to a waiting list,” she admits, setting down the first round of drinks at the corner booth.

Merimna  
Boo-fucking-hoo, you’re a floor manager at an illogically successful gambling hall.

Merimna rolls her eyes and knocks back a double tequila shot. She rolls the empty glass between her slender, ghastly white fingers. That was...not bad.

She raises a polite finger at a passing server.

“I’ll have six more, thanks. It’s on my lovely friend here--the woman,” she clarifies.

Medomai  
Medomai nods helpfully, a tilted smile on his lavender-painted paints. They’re all hot elfkind here, mostly. His pitch black gaze drifts toward Bruiser/Ruran and the sickly yellow-purple sheen they couldn’t banish from their glamoured hair and eyes.

“Care to add anything to Samaritha’s tab, Ruran? Or do you actually prefer ‘Bruiser’?”

Ruran  
Ouch. Ruran had stuck themself with desecrated poppet pins less pointed than this guy’s questioning. Thank the Portents he’s not the one running Riddleport’s unluckiest job interview here.

“I prefer Ruran, I guess. And I think I'll wait until I finish this pot.”

They remove an entire clay pot of steaming chamomile honey tea from Samaritha's tray. After the ratfaces, the meat goo, the cockroaches, the potential racist gatecrashing, and the birdnado, they are so far beyond the help of alcohol at this point.

Speaking of racist, Ruran frowns in the one full-blooded elf at the table. They do not, however, find the nerve to raise their eyes off the wood grain.

“Not to overstep or anything, but can we finish my interview after we get an explanation from…”

DM  
“Kwava,” says the elf, removing a wooden pint of palm wine from the tray.

Merimna, Medomai, and Ruran recognize the foreign sound and cadence of the name as Ekujae, an elven tribe from the Mwangi Expanse far to the south.

Kwava’s violet-eyed glare remains, but it seems more of a serious business-faced frown than some blood-hatred for his own kind. He takes a sip of his wine and lets out a weary sigh.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

Kwava is a member of the local branch of the Shin’Rakorath, an elven affairs bureau of investigation or EBI. According to his superiors, a renegade elf from the Mierani Forest had fled to the criminal safehaven of Riddleport.

“All the EBI could tell me was that the elf was a disguised drow.”

“What’s a drow?” asks Samaritha, slurping her pink raspberry cosmopolitan from a straw.

Kwava jerks his pointed chin at Ruran.

“Like them, only full-blooded.”

Merimna  
It made sense that the elves would have a name for drow before anyone else even knew about them, not that Merimna gives half a damn. She’s got her booze on and six more coming. This interview could drag til first light for all she cares.

Medomai  
Medomai meets Ruran’s glamoured eyes over the Soju Bomb fizzing in his hands.

“Well Ruran?” he asks from the corner of his smiling mouth. “Are you a disguised renegade elf escaped from the EBI seeking refuge in the criminal safehaven of Riddleport?”

Ruran  
“No!” says Ruran, nearly dropping their clay teacup. “I mean, no. I already showed you my true face. I’m fully half-elf. My dad’s Varisian. My mom was...drow, I guess, but she couldn’t be the one either. She’s dead.”

Her immune system just hadn’t been able to handle Riddleport’s disease, filth, and pollution. She’d just gotten weaker and weaker until one day…

The tiny, leather-stitched poppet burns within Ruran’s pocket. It’s a comforting warmth. Ruran sips their tea, one hand over the dolly.

DM  
“Oh thank Desna,” Samaritha sighs, closing her eyes in what might be actual prayer.

She takes a long slurp of her extra fruity cosmopolitan before opening them. She sets down the empty glass and claps her hands, turning between Ruran and Kwava.

“Ruran,” she slaps a hand on Ruran’s shoulder, “Kwava,” and does the same to him, “I’d like to welcome you both official to the table-busing ranks of the Gold Goblin. Congratulations! You’re hired!”

The perpetually frowning Kwava raises a polite finger.

“Technically, I’m already employed by--”

“Nonsense!”

Samaritha takes his finger in both hands, shaking it.

“Welcome to the Gold fucking Goblin you hot elf of mystery, you. Both of you! Report to my office, tomorrow, noon.”

Ruran: @DM  
“Sorry, where IS your office?”

Merimna  
Merimna, seven double tequila shots down, laughs and snorts behind her hand.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” she slurs, shaking her head. “Rury, Kwavy, you just follow us back tonight. We’ll let your coworkeries take it from here.”

Medomai  
Medomai shakes his own head at Mina, smiling fondly. He helps her up out of the booth.

“Alright, Mina. You’ve had enough. We’re going. Ruran, Kwava, follow me.”

Ruran  
Ruran frowns across Samaritha’s arm-line at Kwava. But after today, this might as well happen. They deflate in resignation and help Samaritha up onto their arm.

“Lead on, fellow coworker.”

DM  
Medomai and/or Merimna presumably correct Ruran on the coworker point and introduce themselves en route to the Gold Goblin. The first light breaks like a rose wine spill up from the horizon as they reach their destination.

A white blur thunks against the roof of the gambling hall. A dead seagull bounces and drops onto the hedge. A dozen more thunk against the roof.

“Blood of the ancestors,” mutters Kwava.

Whether due to the Soju Bomb or some other, hot mystery reason, the elf has followed the group back to the Goblin as well.

Racaille  
Racaille is just finishing sweeping up when Medomai walks in with Merimna and the gods-damned floor manager in a stupor, followed by not one but two replacement hires. And one of them is THAT bitch elf.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, then calls out, “Medomai, what the fuck?”

Medomai  
“No worries, he’s not racist, just an undercover EBI agent,” Medomai calls back.

DM: @Medomai  
“Great. Thanks, Medomai,” says Kwava, dry as a monk. “Yeah, I’m Kwava, investigator of the elven affairs bureau.”

Serem  
“Hi Kwava.”

Serem throws his table-wiping rag over his shoulder and offers a hand to Kwava.

“I’m Serem. Good to have ya. And you are?” he asks, offering the same hand to the less edgy, softer-in-general half-elf.

Merimna  
Merimna, leaning heavily on Meda’s shoulder, throws a wobbly pointing finger at Ruran.

“That’s Bruiser,” she slurs helpfully.

Ruran  
“Call me Ruran,” they say with a weak cackle, shaking Serem’s hand. “If we’re blowing covers here, then I guess you should know this isn’t my real face.”

Ruran clears their throat with an even weaker cackle. That could’ve come out better. They didn’t even have an alcohol to blame.

Racaille  
Racaille quirks an eyebrow.

“O-kay.”

Looks like Samaritha really had scraped the gutter of the underworld for this one. Though he’d never admit it, good on her.

“Well met, Ruran. I’m Racaille.”

As for EBI Agent Kwava--his quirked brow drops to a hard, steely line.

“Well. Met,” he lies through his teeth.

Medomai  
“Racaille, Serem, I leave the drunks and the newbs to you. Come on Mina, let’s go home.”

Serem  
Serem waves the murder-twins off then turns to Ruran.

“Here, I’ll take Samaritha off your hands.” 

He’ll carry the floor manager back to her office where she could sleep this off and wake up already at her desk like a champ. With a brain-stabbing hangover.

Merimna  
“Toodles,” Merimna waves, waggling her fingers.

She staggers out on Meda’s arm.

Ruran  
“Bye,” Ruran waves.

They turn back to the remaining two, rocking on their heels.

DM  
Kwava also regards the Chelaxian though coolly and without rocking.

Racaille  
“Right. Follow me. We’ll check in with Saul, the big boss around here.”

Ruran  
“Great! Oh, by the way, a bunch of dead gulls dropped onto the hedges outside. I think it was the Blot that did it to ‘em.”

Racaille  
“Great.”

Just fucking great.

DM: @Racaille  
Saul is hunched over his desk, scratching at paperwork with the parrot-sized imp on his shoulder. He looks up at the squeak of the door. His face breaks into smile and he stands, unsettling Old Scratch who flies to the rafters.

“Well met, well met! Saul Vancaskerkin at your service,” he bows with a flourish. “Didn’t realize there were two of you who’ve agreed to eight gold a week--now that’s the kind of surprise I can get behind. Let me just fix this contract to accommodate the both of ya. Names?”

Ruran  
“Hi, I’m Ruran,” says Ruran with an unnecessary wave.

DM  
“Kwava.”

Saul makes the appropriate changes to the joint contract and fills in the blanks with the names.

“Done and done! Ruran, Kwava, welcome to the Gold Goblin!”


	12. Log 12

DM  
The very next afternoon, less than 24 hours since the job interview, binge, and contracting, Saul calls Medomai and Merimna into his office. His face is grim over his steepled fingers and metal prosthetic.

“I’ll get right to it. I need you two to take out Kwava.”

Medomai  
Medomai raises an eyebrow. This should be good, if he can get it out of the boss.

“Saul, Mina and I went through hell, literal hell, during that hiring process. I lost one of my favorite silk suits and my boots will never fully recover. We’ll do it, but we’ve got to know why.”

Merimna  
Merimna massages the skull-splitting ache from one temple. She absently wonders how Samaritha’s been taking her own inevitable hangover. The tail-end of Meda’s persuasion breaks through her mental fog.

“Yeah, that was no fucking joke, Saul. How’d you like it if a swarm of flesh-eating cockroaches decided to give you a double amputation?”

Her bleary eyes fall to his prosthetic.

“Triple.”

DM  
Saul swallows, adjusting his collar with a finger.

“Yes, well, one of my associates caught wind that Kwava’s actually an agent from the Elven Affairs Bureau of Investigation. Samaritha wasn’t sober enough to mention that when I hired him last night. Naturally, my associate has strongly objected to Kwava’s presence here and has advised a permanent removal.”

Medomai  
The corner of Medomai’s smile deepens in a wry curl. Looks like Saul’s a lot less squeaky clean than he’s been--

Medomai blinks. Kwava’s been scouring Riddleport for an elf in disguise. Saul has an associate that wants Kwava dead based on his position in Elven Affairs.

He looks over at Mina.

Merimna  
Merimna’s hungover, but her two and two still add up to four. She gives Meda the slightest nod with a much less slight wince.

“Hate to break it to you, Saul, but Kwava had no reason to hire on here unless he was already onto you. And what, he’s with a proper organization? He’d have allies. They could already be on the move.”

DM  
Saul slaps his palm to his face.

“Fuck me, you’re right. It’s too late. Okay, change of plans. After work, you two make sure the others stay in the bunkroom but send Kwava out alone. I’ll get a team together.”

Medomai  
That’s gonna be harder than it sounds with Serem as strong as an actual ox, Racaille as slippery as an eel, and the new magical wildcard. It’d be easier just to kill them all, but the boss gets what the boss wants.

“Sure,” Medomai shrugs.

Merimna  
After all the trouble they’d gone through, it’s almost a shame--Merimna shakes her head. No, she can’t start thinking like fucking Racaille or the next thing she knew, she’d be casting her lot with the underdogs.

Then again...those three under her and Meda’s leadership would be fucking stoppable. Just a system-wrecking ball of chaotic--no. Stahp.

“Tonight it is. Nice knowing ya, secret agent man.”

\--/--

DM  
Ruran and Kwava’s first night on the job is rough, but they survive with the rest of them. After cleaning up and closing for the night, they follow Racaille and Serem back to the employee bunkroom.

Serem  
Serem falls into step between Ruran and Kwava. He claps a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Great job out there, tonight. There’ll be more of that tomorrow.”

Ruran  
“Thanks,” Ruran cackles weakly.

They’re worn to the bone with brand new blisters swelling up under the skin of their fingers after all that dishwashing. But it’s a good, wholesome tired. Not like the kind of soul-draining, magic exhaustion that would hit after fixing up all those corpses at the morgue.

Racaille  
Racaille says nothing to either of the new recruits, staring daggers into Kwava’s back. 

Serem’s the one who shouldn’t be bothering. Sure, they’d done well tonight, but how many more nights did they have before they died like all the others. Not that he’d lose sleep over some ill fate befalling Kwava.

DM  
Kwava doesn’t turn around on the way up to the bunkroom, but he regards Racaille icily as he holds the door open for the Chelaxian.

Serem  
Serem strips off his uniform, facing his bunk. He folds the clothes neatly into a drawer and climbs onto the top bunk in his boxers.

“Night, y’all.”

Ruran  
Ruran isn’t quite that comfortable with their coworkers just yet. They grab a sleep shirt from their drawer and climb into the nearest free bunk to change under the covers. Half-way through, they realize they should’ve claimed the top bunk.

Racaille  
Like Serem, Racaille strips down to his boxers. He throws his wadded uniform into his draw and grabs a towel. He heads off to the bathroom to wash his face. 

The water’s ice-cold, but it feels good on his cleaned skin. Now if only there were some kind of brush that could be used to clean teeth.

DM  
By the time Racaille gets back, Kwava has already taken the top of his usual bunk. The elf has, however, closed all the blinds to let them sleep through the morning.

You don’t make it nearly that far. Only an hour into your restful sleep, there’s a knock on the bunkroom door.

Serem  
Serem rolls onto the side facing away from the door. They hadn’t yelled “help”. Whatever it is, it can’t be that important.

Ruran  
Ruran sits straight up, nearly knocking themself out on the overhead bunk. Fuck! They’re back to normal with no spells prepared.

“Sorry! Bad time! Could you give us--me an hour?”

That...probably could’ve come out better.

Merimna  
“Fear not, Bruiser,” Merimna calls through the door. “We’ve all seen your true face here.”

Unless Racaille and Serem hadn’t. 

She shrugs. They had to find out sometime, sharing a living space together like that.

Racaille  
Racaille glances in Ruran’s direction from under Serem’s bunk. He’d forgotten about that. Of course, it’s too dark to see with all the blinds drawn.

He rolls out of bed and cracks the door just wide enough to glare out.

“What in fuck’s name could you possibly want at this gods-forsaken hour?”

Medomai  
“Just Kwava. Not you,” Medomai smiles.

DM  
Kwava aims his own violet-eyed glare out the door.

“Give me an hour.”

Merimna: @DM  
“Really?”

Medomai: @DM  
“Really?”

DM  
“Really. Now shut the door and stop making this awkward for all of us.”

Kwava goes so far as to leap down lightly from Racaille’s bunk and push the door shut over the shorter Chelaxian’s shoulder.

Serem  
Serem’s tired, but not tired enough to miss out on whatever this is turning out to be. He rolls back over, facing away from the wall.

Ruran  
“Thanks, Kwava,” Ruran says quietly, nearly letting the darkness swallow up their voice.

Kwava likely hadn’t done it JUST for them, but they let their thanks stand anyway.

Ruran crosses their legs and pulls the thin bedsheet over their head like the cheapest-ass ghost. They take their tiny, leather-stitched poppet from under their pillow and hold it in both hands. The poppet warms as the portending patron of Ruran’s definitely-not-holy magicks communes through its skin.

Merimna  
Merimna leans back against the wall beside the door, settling in for the long-as-fuck wait. It’d give bumbling old Saul more time to prep, sure, but--she crosses her, head tilting pensively.

“Meda. Don’t freak out. I’m thinking...we tell the underlings.”

Racaille  
Racaille wheels on his heels to question Kwava right in his unnecessarily hot face. 

“What did you do?”

Medomai  
Medomai stares agape at Mina. Who is this and what had she done with his sister? 

Wait, no. Mina never proposed the ludicrous. She must be thinking three steps ahead. He shakes it off.

“What are you thinking?”

DM  
Kwava aims the hard lines of his face down at Racaille though it’s impossible for him to see in this darkness.

“Nothing, unless Merimna and Medomai are fantastic liars. I assume your ‘ex-’crimelord boss is just having second thoughts about hiring an EBI agent and I’m getting laid off.”

Serem  
“No, they’re fantastic liars.”

Serem is sitting up now, swinging his legs off the side of the bunk.

“So what happens in that case?”

DM: @Serem  
“In the worst case scenario, I’m ‘permanently’ laid off.”

Ruran  
Ruran listens to the conversation around them but is too preoccupied with the magickal conversation flowing into them to say anything.

Merimna  
“The real loser here: Saul. He talks big about going clean, but he’s been backsliding into crime ever since he hired us. Now, he’s in the crossfires of two actually established crimelords. And he’s not smart or strong enough to avoid them forever.”

Merimna draws a cigarette and holder from her pack. She takes a drag before continuing, blowing smoke from her nostrils up at the wooden ceiling.

“I say, it’s time to stop working for a loser. We tell the others, we wipe Saul out while it can be blamed on some crimelord, then we ransack this place for all its worth.”

She sets the holder to her lips.

“What do you think?”

Medomai: @Merimna  
Medomai shuts his gaping mouth with a lavender smile. He knocks on the door between them.

Racaille  
Racaille opens it.

“What?”

Medomai  
“Change of plans.”

Medomai squeezes past Racaille into the room, shutting the door behind Merimna. He takes Kwava’s hands.

“Saul has arranged to kill you. We’d like to arrange a doublecross.”

DM  
“Fuck,” Kwava sighs, closing his eyes.

Serem  
“Not to be the bearer of bad news,” says Serem, jumping down from his bunk, “but if ex-crimelord Saul’s made arrangements, you don’t really have a choice.”

He gives Kwava’s shoulder a comforting pat.

“Don’t worry. I’m not attached to the guy. You have my bull-claws.”

Ruran  
‘And my magic’ is what Ruran would’ve said if they could.

Merimna  
“And our expertise.”

Racaille  
Racaille frowns skeptically at the murder-twins. From how this had all gone down, it seems like they’d only just now decided to turn on Saul.

“What are you two getting out this?”

Medomai  
Medomai’s tilted smile widens, stretching from ear to pointed ear.

“Work experience.”

DM  
“So what exactly is your plan?” asks Kwava.

Merimna: @DM  
Merimna pinches out her cigarette. It’s time to get down to business.

She drags the smoking tip across the wall, roughly sketching out the floor plan in ashes and darkness. Wait. It’s not gonna be enough for just her an dMeda to see this.

“Would somebody get the gods-damned blinds already?”

She plows ahead whether someone snaps too it or not, the mouth end of her holder tapping the positions on the wall.

“Meda and I will take Kwava down at the end of the hour. Saul will presumably start with torture, which should give you at least ten minutes to sneak out the windows and in through the back door.”

Serem  
“You’d better start the attack as soon as you see us. I can’t imagine us keeping it stealthy for more than a minute.”

Ruran  
Ruran makes no comment.

Merimna  
“Fine, that’ll be the signal. Any questions?”

Racaille  
“Yeah, how many people have dropped by for the torture-murder?”

Medomai  
“Including Saul, Old Scratch, and Bojask, I counted eleven. Oh, plus the pig Bojask wrangled to eat the evidence. So, twelve.”

Serem: @Medomai  
“Leave the pig to me.”

DM  
Kwava mutters something under his breath. No one catches it, but it sounds almost like “oh my fucking gods” in Elven. You get the sense that you don’t have his vote of confidence, but his life is in your hands whether he likes it or not.

Serem  
“Welp. We should get ready.”  
He opens the blinds, which were apparently closed during the whole plan process, and goes to his clothes drawers. He’s not fighting in his boxers.

Ruran  
Thankfully, the sunlight doesn’t show much more than her outline under the sheet.

Merimna  
Merimna looks over at Racaille and Kwava pointedly. They should hop to it, too. Unless they wanted to be killed in their boxers by thirteen men, an imp, and a pig. 

Racaille  
Racaille rolls his eyes. No, yeah, he’s got it. He goes off to his corner and gets his gear ready.

Medomai  
Medomai smiles across the room at Mina. He’s never more proud of his sister than when she’s taking charge. And this group seems to be taking their orders well. Perhaps this could be the start of something...new.


	13. Log 13

DM  
The end of the hour arrives. Ruran successfully communes with their mysterious patron and is able to prepare their spells. Kwava nods at Medomai and Merimna. He’s as ready as you can be to get tortured as a distraction for your 1-day coworkers to save your life.

Ruran  
Ruran, fully glamoured, gives Kwava a tight but reassuring smile.

“We won’t let you die--down.”

Serem  
Serem claps a hand on Kwava’s shoulder, also smiling.

“What they said.”

Medomai  
Medomai claps his hands and turns to Kwava. 

“Let’s get a move on then. Shall I hold your hand?”

DM: @Medomai  
“No.”

Merimna  
After Medomai, Merimna touches her own forehead, setting her favorite shadow clone trick. 

“Toodles everyone.”

She waves the “surprise” team off, fingers waggling.

Racaille  
Racaille shuts the door behind the “torture” team with his boot. He opens the window at the book of the room and tosses down a rope tied to a bunkpost.

“Who’s first?”

Ruran  
Ruran grabs the rope with a nervous cackle. They lower themself out the window and walk their feet down the wall.

DM: @Ruran  
The wind blustering outside nearly knocks the rope out of Ruran’s sweaty grip, but they make it down to the alley behind the Gold Goblin.

Serem  
Serem sticks his head out the window and gives Ruran a two thumbs’ up. He climbs down next.

DM: @Serem  
Serem practically scampers down like some kind of silent, giant rabbit.

Racaille  
Racaille heads down last.

DM: @Racaille  
The wind kicks up. It bangs Racaille against the side of the Gold Goblin. The rope slips from his grasp. He falls ten feet to the ground but only bruises his butt and his pride.

DM: @Medomai and Merimna  
The gambling hall, lit only by its small, high windows by the rafters, appears almost church-like in its wood and shadows pierced by thin beams of sunlight. The space between the bar and the stage has been cleared of tables. Only one chair remains, seated on stage at the center of crossed light beams.

“Finally,” barks Saul, throwing up his hands.

Bojask and two other mercs yank Kwava away from Medomai and Merimna. They strip him of his gear, armor, and shirt and shove him into the chair.

While they bind him, Medomai and Merimna notice that there are only nine men, one imp, and no pig here.

Medomai  
“Think that’ll make a difference?” Medomai asks out of the corner of his mouth.

Merimna  
“If it does, we just drop out of the plan.”

Ruran  
Ruran winces at the thunk. They offer Racaille a hand up.

“Are you ok?” they whisper.

Serem  
“Yeah, that wasn’t a bad fall by half,” Serem answers for him.

Racaille  
“Thanks,” says Racaille dryly, but he takes the hand up.

He rubs his back end while checking to see if the kitchen’s back door is locked.

DM: @Racaille  
It is not. From the crack of the door, Racaille spots four mercs raiding the food stores. They laugh and joke, swig and burp. A pig snorts in darkness.

DM: @Medomai and Merimna  
Saul cracks his knuckles and walks up on stage. Old Scratch on his shoulder flaps his wings in excitement. Saul points his metal hand in Kwava’s face.

“You’re gonna talk, pretty boy, or Bojask here’ll make you scream--real slow. Who are you? Who sent you?”

“No need. I’ll talk. I’m fairly attached to living. And all of my limbs,” says Kwava. “My name’s Kwava and I was sent to Riddleport by the Elven Affairs Bureau of Investigation.”

Saul blinks owlishly.

Medomai  
Sure, it’s going well now, but Kwava’s given Saul the information they already knew. He’s not gonna be able to keep that up. Those three better step on it before he and Mina have no choice but to ditch.

Merimna  
Merimna restlessly taps the shoulder strap of her longbow. Ditch? Don’t ditch? Either is fine, but the waiting is torture.

Ruran  
Ruran sets their fingertips together in front of their chest. Their aura charges with magickal armor.

Serem  
Serem flexes his fingers. They shift into hardened claws as horns twist up from his head. His boots and feet merged into cloven hooves.

“Right. Bring on the pig.”

Racaille  
Racaille draws his short sword and dagger, hefting the blade of the short sword at Ruran.

“Nobody’s gonna cry if you get yourself killed, newbie, so don’t do it.”

He kicks open the door.

DM  
Ruran, Serem, and Racaille get the jump on four mercs and one man-sized boar with razor-sharp tusks. The surprise round is in their hands.

Serem  
Serem makes a beeline for the pig. He coos and oinks softly as he speaks.

“Hey there lil’ porkster. We’re not gonna hurt ya. We might even be able to feed ya--ya like protein, right?”

DM: @Serem  
Un-fucking-believable, Serem has managed to find the one boar in all of Riddleport that goes fucking goo-goo-eyed at the mere mention of meat. The boar grunts the way an eager puppy would bark.

Ruran  
Ruran doesn’t waste a second of their surprise. They fling their arm toward the nearest merc, leather-stitched poppet in hand.

DM: @Ruran  
Ethereal strings shoot out from the poppet and ensare the man’s spine. One good shake snaps the bone. He dies before he could scream.

Racaille  
Racaille’s own spine shivers at the snap but he doesn’t slow. He swings his blades at the next nearest merc.

DM  
Racaille’s shortsword cleaves the man’s head from his neck. The remaining mercs are so shocked by the horrific burst of lightning-violence that they fail to gather their wits. The boar just sits there, menacing only toward the recently deceased.

Serem  
Sucks to be deceased. Serem claws into the next merc, hoping to add them to his new boarfriend’s buffet.

DM: @Serem  
And he does, cutting the man into the kind of misshapen steaks that only a true pig could appreciate.

Ruran  
“Sorry Mr. Pig, but I’m taking these two off the menu.”

They touch one hand to the neck stump of Racaille’s mark and the head of theirs. The black sludge of necromantic magic flows from Ruran into the corpses.

DM: @Ruran  
These dead have no means of resisting the Ruran’s call to unlife/undeath. They rise mindlessly as bidden by their new master. Despite dying only seconds ago, the stench of decay now reeks from every desecrated pore.

Racaille  
Ho-ly fuck. Scratch that. Unholy fuck. And Racaille had thought the murder-twins were bad. Wait, there’s still one guy left?

Racaille puts last measure of his better self aside and goes in for the kill.

DM  
That soul-dirtied strike does it. The last of the mercs falls to the ground, Mr. Pig grunting in glee. The boar begins to chomp on a merc-steak.

Those bodies hitting the floor haven’t gone unnoticed, although the walls have muffled said thunks and clatters to vague background noise.

“Bojask, would you tell those dumbshits for hire to stop dicking around in my food stores--that’s for paying customers, gods damn it.”

Medomai  
Medomai raises a finger.

“I’ll do it. I’m bored to death over here.”

DM: @Medomai  
Saul and Bojask shrug, sensing nothing out of the ordinary.

Merimna  
“Bring snacks,” Merimna whisper-shouts as he heads off.

Sure, she could send a psychic message that would go over the others’ heads, but then how would they know that she, too, is bored out of her mind?

DM  
Saul resumes the remarkably easy interrogation.

“Why did the EBI send you to me?”

“Word on the street says you know where to find that renegade drow who fled to Riddleport.”

“So you know about her. Wait--who’s been talking about me? Was it Clegg? Boss Croat?”

Medomai  
Medomai steels his shoulders and walks into the kitchen. He looks from the three to the two risen dead to the man-sized boar chomping on a man-steak. He rests his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

“Who’re the stiffs?” he finally says.

Serem  
“Ruran’s new buddies. This one’s mine.”

Serem throws his boarfriend a couple oinks.

Ruran  
Ruran grins and shrugs sheepishly. Serem’s not wrong.

“How’s Kwava?”

Medomai: @Ruran  
“Surprisingly well, but we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Racaille  
“Then we won’t. Ruran, get your boogiemen up front.”

Racaille kicks open this next door, too.

DM  
Saul, Bojask, Old Scratch, and the eight mercs are pretty fucking surprised to see two gods-damned, broken-ass corpses leading the “surprise” team’s dramatic entrance. Merimna, less so.

Surprised in general. Possibly still surprised by the bodies. Just she acts in the surprise round.

Ruran  
Ruran sends their zombies to whack at the two mercs guarding the front doors. But their biggest concern are those three archers on the catwalks. They point their poppet at the nearest.

DM: @Ruran  
The gods have decided Ruran’s done enough desecration of humanity in the past couple minutes and grant this archer the mental strength of an transcended monk.

Between the two of their janky blows, the zombies manage to crush the skull of one guard with their clubs.

Serem  
Serem goes for the biggest threat, Bojask. He tears at him with both claws.

DM: @Serem  
I should never have given you guys that extra level. Serem fucking obliterates Bojask, just tears him to fucking shreds right there on stage with Kwava in the splash zone.

Racaille  
“Saul!” Racaille roars.

He leaps onstage beside Serem and slashes at his boss with the full force of all his employee frustrations.

DM: @Racaille  
Saul grunts and staggers back. Racaille’s dealt him a grievous blow, but he keeps his feet.

Medomai  
Ruran’s got the right fear of those archers. Possibly their only righteous fear.

Medomai’s thin smile widens. He aims his crossbow at the archer they failed to ensare.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai’s bolt punches through the archer’s skull. He crashes down from the rafters.

Merimna  
FINALLY. Merimna nocks an arrow and fires into the rafters.

DM  
Merimna’s arrow goes through the heart of the archer. He joins his buddy with a bone-breaking crash.

The remaining doorguard desperately beats at the zombie who took down his buddy. But in sheer terror, he just sorta flails.

“You filthy traitors!” Saul growls.

He falls back behind the two mercs with him on stage. They swing their clubs at Racaille and Serem. Old Scratch flies at Racaille, his tail-stinger whipping wildly through the air.

Both mercs miss their marks, but Old Scratch stings true. He jabs the massive needle of his tail into Racaille’s arm like a tiny, angry, spitting nurse.

Ruran  
Zombies, attack! 

Aside from that, Ruran gives their magic a rest. They aim their hand crossbow at the last archer.

DM: @Ruran  
The bolt plunks solidly into the archer’s leg but doesn’t kill him.

One zombie punches glass. The other caves in the door guard’s skull.

Serem  
Serem slashes at the merc standing between him and Saul.

DM: @Serem  
Serem slashes right through the guy’s neck. There’s no one left standing between him and Saul.

DM  
The last archer keeps his grip on his bow despite the pain and aims at half-elf who hit him in the thigh. The pain is, however, too much for his aim. His arrow goes sailing over Ruran’s head.

Racaille  
Motherfuck, that hurt, but that merc with the club is posing the bigger threat.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille cuts through Saul’s last man-sized bodyguard like cheese.

Medomai  
Medomai aims at the last archer. Nighty-night.

DM: @Medomai  
The crossbow bolt nails the archer right in the femoral. He falls off the catwalk to his death.

Merimna  
As much as Merimna would love to aim her arrow at Saul, that imp--no, wait. She drags her nocked arrow back toward Saul. Merimna does whatever the Hells she wants.

DM  
Merimna shoots. She scores! The arrow goes right through Saul’s left eye. He doesn’t scream because it also goes into his left brain. He drops dead onstage.

Old Scratch, suddenly masterless, whoops and vanishes from sight. You hear his fading cackles as he flies away. Silence falls upon the body-littered gambling hall and stage in his wake.

Kwava clears his throat.

“Could somebody untie me?”

Ruran  
Ruran jumps to it. As long as they’re busy, hopefully no one would try to talk to them. Especially about the undead now mindlessly staring through the front doors.

Serem  
That’s that. Serem shifts back to his usual elfin self.

“What now?”

Racaille  
Racaille casts his black-eyed gaze over the sea of bodies and blood. He shuts them, massaging a temple with the hilt of his dagger.

“Someone’s gonna have to break this to Samaritha.”

Medomai  
“Not it.”

Merimna  
“At the very least, not until we’ve ransack this joint for all its worth.”

DM  
“Pass,” says Kwava, shaking out his wrists. “Thanks, Ruran. But will you take some advice?”

Ruran  
“Yes. Sure.”

Listening, that’s much better than having to explain yourself.

DM: @Ruran  
“The next time we meet, lay off the necromancy. As an EBI agent, I’ve gotta tell you that’s a crime punishable by death among our kind.”

Serem  
Serem winks at their little necromancer.

“Don’t worry. We won’t tell.”

Racaille  
Racaille continues massaging. Despite coming from Archdevil-worshipping Chelish stock, he doesn’t want to touch the moral ramifications of necromancy with a ten-foot pole.

“Ransacking. Right. Shall we?”

Medomai  
“Once we’ve said our goodbyes to Kwava. Goodbye, Kwava,” Medomai smiles.

Merimna  
“Toodles,” Merimna waves, waggling her fingers.

DM  
Kwava gives you all a stiff jerk of the chin. He picks his way over the bodies, making like an imp and vanishing through the front doors. As the doors swing shut, The day-old carcass of a seagull drops from the sky onto the doormat with a reeking note of finality.


	14. Log 14

DM  
In your wholesale ransack of the Gold Goblin, you discover a trapdoor in the wine cellar, hidden under four casks of common port.

Medomai  
Kwava had well and truly checked out of this party before it’d begun. Medomai raises a finger.

“I vote we send the zombies down first.”

Ruran  
“That IS kinda what they’re here for, but it’s hard to get unbiased results from a canary test with undead canaries,” Ruran says quietly.

They shiver in the damp chill of the cellar but not from the cold. That renegade drow’s gotta be down there.

Serem  
“I’ll be our canary,” Serem drawls.

He tries whatever keys they’ve found in the Gold Goblin and hefts up the door in the floor.

DM: @Serem  
The key that served as Saul’s metal hand is the one that does the trick. The door opens with a heavy clunk.

The gaping pit below drops away into an underground cavern. It descends twenty feet to a pool of briney water. The pit’s sides are steeply sloped and slick with moss but a series of wooden ladders and ropes descends along these walls to the edge of the pool.

Merimna  
“Who wants to bet there’s something in the water?” says Merimna, grinning wryly.

Thank goodness they hadn’t taken damage in that fight. No one that mattered, anyway.

Racaille  
“Only if you get in there to find out,” Racaille snorts.

He doesn’t wait around to hear whatever lame retort she or Medomai decide to spit out. He climbs down the stairs, cautiously.

DM  
Though slick, the stairs have been sturdily constructed and resist your every attempt to put your foot through a wet plank. 

As the five living beings and two undead reach the sandbank at the bottom, Merimna takes a nasty spill. She falls, sliding out between two wooden rails. She rolls down the sandbank and into the water.

Two man-sized fish covered in algae snap at Merimna with razor-toothed jaws as long as an alligator’s. One’s teeth glance off her slick new leaf armor. The other chomps into her calf, activating her shadow clone.

The clone shatters at the bite.

Ruran  
Zombies, go! Ruran sends them shambling into the water as offense and/or offerings. They stay on the bank themself, having never learned how to swim.

DM: @Ruran  
Offerings, none of their blows land.

Merimna  
Fuck! Merimna can’t shoot in water. She tries swimming out to the bank instead.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s a much stronger swimmer than Ruran and can definitely make it to the bank. But as she kicks off, both fish take opportune bites into her. Dark red blood gushes into the underground tide pool, clouding the water.

Serem  
Serem offers Merimna an arm to lean on if she needs it. He’ll help her to a seat well out of reach of the water.

“Meda, you better get over here.”

Medomai: @Serem  
Medomai’s smile twitches at his nickname in the elf’s mouth. The sight of Mina’s bloody, bitten, and drenched form quickly douse his irritation, though.

He drops to one knee beside her and sets his fingertips on her brow. His healing magic washes into her.

DM  
While Medomai staunches the bleeding the two man-sized fish pull Ruran’s undead bogeymen under the water to their second deaths.

Racaille  
Racaille looks out over the churning, then stilling waters. Probably for the best. 

He walks over to Merimna’s side, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d been joking earlier. There’s no way he’s paying up.

“You okay?”

Merimna: @Racaille  
“Of course,” says Merimna, standing and wringing out the ends of her geometric-print silk suit. “Meda took care of it.”

She sets the side of her pointer finger to her brow, implanting her trick.

“There, all ready to move out.”

Medomai  
“Excellent. Goodbye, fishies.”

Medomai waves without looking. He rounds the tide pool and heads into the dark of the cave.

DM  
There’s no light here at the sandy crossroads. The tunnel splits into a northern and southern branch.

Ruran  
Ruran lingers at the tide pool to give a nod of thanks and goodbye. Then run to join the others at the crossroads.

“I’ll go south,” they offer breathlessly.

They’re not much of a swimmer or a runner.

Merimna  
“Very well. I’ll go north. We’ll meet back here after hitting a dead end or in an hour. Whichever comes first.”

Serem  
Serem lights a torch. He looks between the sodden Merimna and the breathless Ruran. Medomai’s definitely going with Merimna.

“I’ll go with you.”

He joins Ruran’s side.

Racaille  
Racaille blinks, his entire body numb. It’s happening. AGAIN.

Without a word, he pulls a torch from his pack. He lights it. He walks mechanically to Merimna and Medomai’s side. When he speaks, his voice is hollow and distant.

“Let’s go.”

Medomai  
Medomai claps a hand on the catatonic Chelaxian’s shoulder.

“Good to have you with us.”

\--/--

DM  
The southern team immediately discover a dead end. Their path leads only to a small cave holding a still pool. A lack of water marks on the walls indicates no tidal action, and the stony shore is unmarked by debris. 

Except for a skeleton slumped against the wall. Its hollow eyes  
stair sightlessly into the pool, and its bony knuckles clutch at a rusty sword blade that protrudes from its tatter-clad sternum.

Ruran  
Ruran looks at the skeleton. At Serem. Back at the skeleton. As much as they’d like to veer away from more desecration of humanity today, there’s no denying that their team is short by one.

Serem  
“Hey, look at that. A replacement,” Serem grins.

He walks over toward the pool to give Ruran and their death-warranting magic some privacy. Unlike Merimna, he doesn’t go in, but he does hold his torch out over the water.

DM  
Gold glints in the torchlight. Six feet under, a more placid skeleton and a rotten chest with busted seams sit at the stony bottom of the pool. 

Ruran  
Ruran aims a small, grateful smile at Serem’s back. They crouch before the skeleton with the poppet in their left hand. They touch their right over the empty eyes of its skull.

DM: @Ruran  
As their sludge of black magic oozes over the skeleton, a wave of sheer, burning anger rises off the bones and resists Ruran’s necromancy. All at once, they realize that this is no mere skeleton but a wight, a being made undead by its own undying wrath and hatred.

That single, binding emotion, however, is no match for Ruran’s outpouring of desecration. The wight rises, dull red light glowing from its eye sockets, bound to the half-elf’s will.

Serem  
“Don’t mind me.”

Serem’s not pulling a full Merimna. He strips down to his birthday suit to keep his clothes and gear dry and shifts into his bull-chimera form. He dives into the pool to retrieve the chest.

Ruran  
Ruran looks over just in time to see Serem diving butt-naked into the pool. First of all, oh. Oh. Second of all, they run over to the pool’s edge, ready to send the wight in after any more man-sized fish with a taste for hot elvenkind.

DM  
The second skeleton remains good and dead as Serem hauls up the chest. It contains 380 gold pieces, two motherfucking rubies, a cat-headed idol cast in solid gold and a crystal wand. Ruran identifies the magic in the wand as a spell of levitate.

Serem  
Serem hands the wand over to Ruran.

“I couldn’t use this if I tried. The rest of this is pretty heavy. I’ll carry it for now and we’ll split it later.”

Ruran  
“Thanks, Serem,” Ruran squeaks, looking everywhere except directly at him or any part of him.

Serem  
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Serem shakes off as much water as he can and replaces his clothes. Time to go find their other half.

\--/--

DM  
The northern team follows the cave into a twisting tunnel thick with glittering stalactites. Crystalline veins run their lengths connecting to nodes of translucent crystal.

A musty, foul stench wafts from the darkened passage beyond. None of them have any idea of the true source of the stench, one guess being as good as the next.

Medomai  
Medomai looks up at the glittering stalactites overhead. Pretty. His nose wrinkles. A shame about the stench.

DM: @Medomai  
The crystal network within crackles and flares to life with a burst of dazzling light.

Medomai  
“That seems ominous.”

Medomai readies his crossbow to fire at any forthcoming attacker.

DM  
Two arcs of raw static launch out from the two largest stalactites. They zap the two siblings up front, leaving their ash brown hair smoking.

Racaille  
Racaille draws his blades, eyes flicking from the nearest stalactite to the curve of the cavern wall. He’s not dying to an oversized hunk of salt. Here goes nothing. 

He runs up the wall as far as he can to jump off and cross-swipe at that stalactite.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille runs, jumps, and seemingly steps on air to make that flip. He slashes a deep gash into the hard but not truly stone creature. And sticks the landing like a boss.

Merimna  
Merimna raises her smoking eyebrows. That was more impressive than she’d ever give Racaille credit for.

She draws her longbow and shoots at the gash in the wounded crystal creature.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s arrow jabs deep into the gash and then deeper. A hunk of stone-colored creature and long, crystal spikes falls from the cavern ceiling.

Medomai  
“Oh good, it dies like a man.”

Medomai shoots at the next crystalline creature.

DM  
Medomai’s crossbow twangs harshly. The bolt flies off down the tunnel.

The remaining creature launches another shocking arc but hits Medomai’s offending crossbow instead of his offending person.

Racaille  
Take two. Racaille runs up the other wall.

DM: @Racaille  
As Racaille flips under the stalactite, his cross-swipe cuts completely through the crystal. The creature falls in two, juice-leaking pieces.

Merimna  
Merimna lowers her longbow.

“Well that wasn’t extra at all.”

DM  
Footsteps echo from not one but both ends of the tunnel. The southern team appears in the south, now larger by one dubiously living skeleton with glowing red eyes.

From the north appear four club-wielding humanoids resembling giant cave lizards. They stink to the high heavens.

Ruran  
“Oh, hi--woah. Wight, attack!”

Ruran, determined to save some of her magic for the drow that’s definitely at one end of this tunnel, aims her hand crossbow at the same lizard she sicced her wight on.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran can’t aim for shit, but that undead’s a beast. 

The wight slams its bony fist into the lizard’s throat. Its unliving rage drains every last drop of life energy out of the lizard. The wight casts their carcass off to the side.

Racaille  
“Gods-damn it, Ruran--weren’t you supposed to be taking it easy with the black magic?”

Racaille slices at the closest lizard.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s blades sweep clean through the lizard’s neck, decapitating it.

Merimna  
“Who cares if Ruran’s friends are abominations in the eyes of most pantheons? At least they’re useful.”

Merimna fires at the next lizard.

DM  
Merimna’s arrow sinks deep into the lizard’s chest, but the creature keeps coming. They swing their club at the frontline wight. Wood glances off wrathful bone.

The other remaining lizard swings at the frontline Racaille. Their aim is even worse, nearly beaning their comrade in the back of the head.

Medomai  
“When my sister shoots you, you stay down, lizard-brains.”

Medomai fires his crossbow.

DM: @Medomai  
A threat that would’ve been far more effective if Medomai had actually landed that shot. 

Serem  
This fight actually seems to be going quite well. Serem doesn’t use up another primal shift, opting to hang back and admire the teamwork.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran feels a rush of necromantic magic and everyone else catches its distinctive stink of death and decay. Beside the wight, the carcass of its marked lizard rises into undeath, fuelled by strength of the wight’s wrath.

Ruran  
Ruran cringes at the unexpected promulgation of their life-desecrating black magic.

“Sorry, sorry guys.”

The least they can do is make this right by ending the fight. Ruran shoots their hand crossbow at the wounded lizard. They send the wight and its buddy off to attack the not-wounded one.

DM: @Ruran  
Once again, Ruran’s bolt goes wide. And the wight delivers its soul-draining slam into the throat of the fresh lizard. It throws this doomed-to-rise carcass to the ground as well.

Racaille  
“Ruran, WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Racaille stabs at the last lizard before Ruran’s bogeymen get their undeath-infecting claws into them.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille successfully spares the last lizard from a fate of eternal damnation. Which is exactly the fate that befalls the second risen spawn of the wight.

Merimna  
“Ruran, question. What exactly do you plan to do with your undead entourage once we’re out of the cave?”

Ruran: @Merimna  
Ruran winces at the question. They keep their eyes closed through the answer.

“I have to, ah, “re-dead” them. Which is exactly what it sounds like.”

And what they’d done to the two zombie mercs in the kitchen while the others had ransacked the Gold Goblin. They could see how the others might’ve mistakenly blamed Mr. Pig for their deaths. 

Medomai  
“So...show of hands--who needs healing?”

Serem  
“I’m good.”

Ruran  
Ruran squints one eye back open as they shake their head.

Racaille  
Racaille glares at the cowering Ruran. He opens his mouth. Frowns. Raises his hand.

Having to murder your own lackeys isn’t a fate he’d wish on anyone--well, nobody he liked--but Ruran is being responsible with their descretation. That’s all he can expect at this point.

Merimna  
Merimna raises her hand as well.

“Thanks, Meda.”


	15. Log 15

DM  
Once again, the cavern splits up ahead. The eastern path smells sickly sweet. The western path just has that plain old, nose-punching lizard stank.

Ruran  
Ruran, long since acclimated to necromancy and morgue stenches, has no particular preference. They look to the others while standing back with their small army of undead.

Racaille  
Racaille jerks his chin at Medomai.

“Thanks for the healing. I’ll stick with you.”

Merimna  
“We’re going east.”

Sickly sweet beats plain stank any day.

Medomai  
“Let’s stick to the same rendez-vous rules as before.”

Serem  
Serem steps in beside Ruran. He gives the eastern team a two-fingered salute.

“Will do.”

\--/--

DM  
The eastern team follows their branch into a small, cramped chamber. A foul fishy odor intermingles with the sickly sweet smell of rot. The floor here is uneven and ankle deep in fish scales, bloated clumps of pallid fungus, and a sludge of old gristle.

Racaille  
It’s too late to turn back, but not too late for Racaille to regret his life choices.

“After you.”

Medomai  
“Of course,” says Medomai, his iron breastplate clearly sturdier than Racaille and Merimna’s leaf armor.

Medomai’s nose wrinkles but he steps forward into the stinky, gristly cavern.

DM: @Medomai  
As Medomai enters the chamber, the entire eastern team catches the noxious bubbling from the center of the sludge. Out leaps a three-foot-long cross between insect and fungus, a large spongy head borne atop its cricket-like body and razor-sharp mandibles.

Merimna  
Merimna inhales a shriek and fires her longbow. Nasty bug needs to fucking die.

DM: @Merimna  
In her fear of creepy crawlies, her arrow flies wide and plops into the stew of decay.

Racaille  
Yeah, no, Racaille can’t really blame Merimna. That thing’s fucking gross. He slashes at its spongy, fungal head.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s blades cut spongy chunks from the fungal mass. The creature shrieks in pain but doesn’t back down.

Medomai  
Medomai’s smile takes a queasy turn. That is vile. He pops off his crossbow at the chunked-off head bulb.

DM  
Medomai’s too disgusted to aim straight. His bolt plops into the stew, too.

The creature screams in territorial rage. It bites and claws at Medomai. In its mindless fury, its mandibles chomp down on one of its own arms. The other swings a claw under Medomai’s ribs.

As its claw enters Medomai’s space, Merimna’s trick triggers. A shadow clone pops out, but the creature rips into the right body.

Merimna  
Merimna’s black eyes narrow to black slits. She fires through her jittering nerves.

DM: @Merimna  
This time, Merimna’s arrow wedges deep into the chunked-up wedge of the creature’s fungal head.

Racaille  
Archfiend’s balls, that’s nasty. Racaille grits his teeth and slices to kill.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s cross-swipe severs the whole, spongy mass off the insectoid body. The creature splashes into the gristle stew.

Medomai  
Medomai and his shadow clone set the line of their hands along the red stripe painting their noses. Healing washes into the real man and finds the wound below his breastplate. 

“The others had better be just as disgusted, or I’m calling foul.”

Merimna  
Merimna smiles wryly, shaking her head. Trust her brother to be irreverent at all times.

“Here, let me reset that trick.”

She sets a fingertip on Meda’s brow.

Racaille  
Racaille looks away, heading off to retrieve his dropped torch. There’s nothing uncomfortable about the murder-twins’ actions--the opposite, they’re so...nice. To each other. Which makes him feel like a third wheel at some family fun fair. Talk about sickly sweet.

\--/--

DM  
The western team’s tunnel grows heavier with reptilian stench. Several pairs of pounding footsteps clack in the distance. Five more club-wielding lizard creatures charge down the tunnel.

Serem  
Serem shifts, whipping out the bull-claws. He strikes at the lizard leading the charge.

DM: @Serem  
Serem rips deep, but the lizard keeps on keeping on.

Ruran  
There’s no time for thought. Ruran fires their crossbow at the wounded lizard and sends their wight and two buddies at the next lizard.

DM  
Ruran’s bolt careens off a real stalactite and straight through the lizard’s skull, sparing it a fate worse than death.

Of the wight and minions, only the wight manages to land a blow. It slams the lizard in the chest, draining life energy but not all of it. Yet.

The wight’s drained lizard attacks the wight. In their weakened state, however, they can barely swing their club. Their blow glances off its boney hide.

Two lizards tangle with the two minions, their clubs also bouncing off the minion lizards’ scales.

The fourth lizard aims for Serem’s horned head. Their club swishes through the air in front of his nose.

Serem  
Too bad for lizard-face. Serem claws in the wake of the club.

DM: @Serem  
Too bad, indeed. Serem’s claws shred the lizard-face from the lizard-body. They drop dead to the ground.

Ruran  
Ruran’s wight and minions gang up on one lizard. Ruran fires at the other.

DM  
Only Ruran and the wight land their blows. Ruran’s bolt sinks into the one lizard’s chest. The wight’s chest-pounding slam drains half the life energy out of the other.

The lizards club at the wight and Serem in desperation. They miss the wight. The other clubs themself in their own wild swing at Serem.

Serem  
Serem claws at the lizard with the bolt sticking out of their chest.

DM: @Serem  
Serem claws them to death.

Ruran  
Ruran fires at the last lizard to try to kill them before they become another wight minion. If that doesn’t kill the lizard, there’s no choice but to let the wight and minions attack.

DM  
The bolt lands with a solid thunk, but the lizard doesn’t go down. The wight’s slam takes care of that. The lizard falls face first to the cavern floor, doomed to join its too brethren in undeath.

Serem  
Serem shifts back, dusting off his hands. Then stoops to pick a club off the ground. He could use a weapon that doesn’t require him to go bull-chimera to use it.

“Do you want one?” he asks, hefting its weight in his hand.

Ruran  
Ruran glances at the wight, two minions, and rising minion off the Serem’s side.

“I’ll stick to ranged, thanks.”

Serem  
Serem keeps the club in hand and picks up his torch in the other. He points the torch toward the tunnel ahead.

“Onward!”

Ruran  
Ruran cackles quietly and sends their small undead army ahead with Serem. They follow in the shadows ten feet behind his torch.

DM  
The northern branch of this tunnel has collapsed in a tumble of rubble and earth. Serem and Ruran note that the collapse is recent, likely the result of Riddleport’s recent tremor. 

Water drips and echoes from every corner of the tunnel. Pools as deep as six inches drain through tiny cracks in the surrounding rock.

Serem  
Serem’s breathing slows. It’s peaceful here. It always is in the wake of wreckage, even more peaceful than normal. It’s growth that’s noisy and chaotic.

Ruran  
Ruran steps short and high to keep the water from seeping into their boots, keeping time between the drips.

“Serem?”

Serem  
“Yeah?”

Ruran  
“Does it bother you…”

There’s honesty a lot of things Ruran’s responsible for that might bother a normal person like Racaille or Serem. There’s nothing Ruran can do at the moment, but just knowing would give them some peace of mind. Hopefully.

Serem  
Serem stops ankle-deep in a long puddle. He answers without looking back.

“Necromancy isn’t something I’d ever do even if I could do it. Still, there’s a place for everything and everyone. Balance turns the world.”

Ruran  
Ruran stands frozen at the dark end of the puddle. They’ve never really thought about it like that. They’ve never really had to face the truth of necromancy at all.

DM  
Light shines from a branch further up the tunnel. Who should appear but Racaille followed by Medomai and Merimna followed again by the thick, eye-burning stank of rotted fish and general decay.

Ruran  
Ruran rushes to stand in front of the wight and minions, obscuring their slightly increased number with their body.

“So glad we’re smelling you now. As opposed to later.”

They cackle weakly.

Serem  
Serem stretches his arms behind his head, carefully crossing the torch and newfound club.

“Ransack anything?”

Merimna  
Merimna spreads her arms over her befouled silk suit and leaf armor.

“Obviously not. Thanks for asking.”

Serem: @Merimna  
“You’re welcome.”

Racaille  
The corner of Racaille’s mouth twitches wryly upward. Thank the Hells for that sturdy bastard Serem.

“Did you?”

Ruran: @Racaille  
“Only you guys. Wait, you meant ‘find’ not ‘ransack’, right?”

Medomai  
“One’s as good as the other as far as we’ve gotten down here.”

Medomai nods toward the bend of the tunnel ahead.

“Shall we?”

DM  
The tunnel opens into a cavern bathed in a strange orangish-purple glow that seems to reduce visibility rather than increase it. In fact, it inhibits the light of Racaille and Serem’s torches as well. 

The glow comes from a number of large rock nodules about the room. A still, black pool sits at the east of the chamber.

Ruran  
This is weird. Ruran stays as far as they can from the pool and shepherds their bogeymen against the cavern wall as well.

Serem  
Serem raises his brows at the mysterious glowing rocks. They don’t stop him from holding his torch out over the water to check the bottom for another treasure chest.

DM: @Serem  
The glow prevents the torchlight from penetrating the surface, but a black ripple moves across the face of the pool under Serem’s shadow. The water splits and pours down the slimy bodies of two man-sized worms. Their hooked jaws screech open from the center of a writhing mass of tentacles.

Ruran  
“Oh, fuck.”

Ruran sends their wight and three minions at the first creature. They stay back against the cavern wall, racking their brain to see if they’ve read about these things before.

DM: @Ruran  
The wight and minions beat in vain at the creature Ruran recognizes as a grick, an aberration with powerful defenses to non-magical weapons.

Medomai  
Medomai fires his crossbow. There’s no way in Hells these came out of Riddleport--or there wouldn’t be if not for that stupid Blot.

Merimna  
When it comes to mindless creepy crawlies, Merimna’s magic is as good as no magic. She shudders and fires an arrow.

DM: @Medomai and Merimna  
The bolt and arrow bounce off the grick’s powerful, slimy hide.

Serem  
Serem drops his club and torch. This is exactly the kind of weird, Blot-related threat he saves his shifting for. He shifts and slashes.

DM: @Serem  
Serem’s primally magicked claws rip into the first grick’s wormy flesh like hot blubber. The grick falls into the pool with a splash and disappears into the black waters.

Racaille  
Racaille’s fingers twitch around the torch. He doesn’t drop it. He doesn’t draw a single blade.

Ruran’s bogey army surround the other grick. It’s better for everyone if they disappeared.

DM  
The remaining grick shrieks at the death of its fellow. It flails at the surrounding undead in grief and rage, hitting none of them.

Ruran  
Ruran keeps their wights on the grick. At the very least, they form an unliving wall between the grick and everyone on shore.

DM: @Ruran  
The wight and minions strike, but only the wight’s slam pierces the grick’s defenses.

Medomai  
Medomai lowers his crossbow.

“Serem, it’s all yours.”

Merimna  
Merimna never thought she’d be thankful for dumb muscle, yet here she is. She gives Serem a nod of “likewise”.

Serem  
A skewed grin spreads wide across Serem’s face. He tears into the wounded grick.

DM: @Serem  
Blubber chunks rain down from Serem’s strikes. Most of them join the blubbery carcass as it sinks back to the depths from whence it came.

Racaille  
Racaille looks over the wights on the bank, his eyes narrowing to black slits. They hadn’t taken any damage. There even seems to be one more of them than he remembers.

Ruran, that awkward, lying little fuck. He’s doubly glad the Gold Goblin’s done for. When this is all over, there’s no way he’s ever working with them again. 

Actually, he doesn’t want to see ANY of these people ever again, except Serem. Serem’s fine.

Ruran  
Ruran crouches on one knee by a blubber chunk. They shake their head. There’d come a time when all these changes would shift Riddleport’s equilibrium--push the whole past a point of no return. The fuck-all point.

Medomai  
“If there’s no treasure at the end of this tunnel, I’m going to be murderously disappointed,” Medomai smiles, absently kicking a blubber chunk into the pool.

Merimna  
Merimna mirrors the sentiment, only she’s not kicking a boot-soiling a chunk of blubber anywhere. Nor is she joking. If she can’t get the drow at the end of the tunnel to cough up the goods, she’ll need an outlet.

“Are we ready to move out, or should I take a smoking break?”

Serem  
“Onward!”

Serem raises his torch toward the continuation of the tunnel and marches. He had been watching everyone but Ruran become increasingly antsy. He could’ve said something about the treasure he’d uncovered, but stress is always much more revealing.


	16. Log 16

DM  
The tunnel feeds into a cave illuminated by orange-purple glowing crystals on either side of a low natural shelf on the southern wall. This shelf has been converted into a bed of sorts, complete with a luxurious white fur blanket lying rumpled on it, a velvet pillow, and a platinum filigreed footchest. A pair of black boots rests beside the small ledge.

Medomai  
Medomai’s grin widens from ear to ear. So there is a light at the end of the tunnel. He throws his silk-sleeved arms wide, detecting for magic.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai detects nothing but the magicks on everyone’s persons, most likely the protective amulets everyone’s wearing. Ruran’s person also carries a transmutation artifact and a necromantic artifact.

Racaille  
Racaille’s fingers itch for his thieves’ tools at the sight of the chest, which itself must be worth its weight in platinum, but he sinks into a crouch at the far edge of the bedroom. After all the apparent guards they’d faced, there still might be a trap.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille detects nothing at all. The only protection this room has was everything in the entire tunnel, now mostly dead or undead.

Serem  
Serem walks to the bed. He picks up the fur throw to help determine what animal it was.

DM: @Serem  
It was a white wolf.

Ruran  
Ruran stands back with Racaille and the wights. As the newest member of their recently gutted casino operation, they can’t call dibs on any of this. It’s possible there isn’t even enough to go around--which is fine, they only worked one day.

Merimna  
“Oh, yes,” says Merimna, approaching the boots. She flings off her soiled own and sinks down beside the supple black fabric. This is exactly what the doctor ordered.

“These aren’t magic, by the way. Just delectable.”

Medomai  
“No one’s going to fight you over a pair of secondhand boots,” says Medomai lightly despite the certainty of his implied threat.

He sits down on the bed beside Serem and crosses one leg over the other. His fingers lace over his knee. Medomai turns his smile onto Racaille, who’s been eyeing the lockbox.

“Can you open? Or shall we let Ruran get their black magic hands on Bojask?”

Racaille  
A muscle flexes in Racaille’s jaw. He considers grabbing the velvet pillow and throwing it into Medomai’s smug, unabashedly evil face.

He thinks “better” of it and turns his tools onto the platinum chest, stewing in silence.

DM: @Racaille  
There’s a sturdy lock, but Racaille pops it in a single go. Within are twelve platinum coins, a black onyx, a velvet pouch of diamond dust, a glue bottle, and a crystal vial of a sour, overpowered perfume.

Serem  
Serem’s nose twitches, catching that whiff even through the thick fur of the white wolf. It’s rank but no worse than animal urine, which it could be. Especially given all the non-humanoid things guarding this place that could easily mistake one humanoid for another.

“Huh. Well, if we don’t turn that drow into an undead, we’ve got the perfect shroud to bury them in,” he says, shaking the fur throw.

Ruran  
Ruran nods and shrugs. That’s true. When you kill an undead, they mostly fall apart. Some burst into dust. Not a lot left to bury. They’re better suited for a poor, desperate prole’s charcoal.

Merimna  
Merimna slips on her new boots and traipses up behind Racaille. She inspects the haul over his shoulder. She lets out a soft, happy sigh. This tunnel bullshit had paid off--not much, but enough for today.

“Why don’t you hold on to that for us until we get back to the Goblin,” she says generously, patting Racaille’s shoulder. “All that’s left to do is meet the motherfucker who put us through all of this. Are we all ready?”

Medomai  
Medomai stands and cocks his crossbow at the corner of the cave ceiling.

“Ready.”

Racaille  
Racaille stows his thieves’ tools and the platinum chest in his pack. He takes up his torch in one hand and draws his short sword in the other.

“Let’s do this.”

Serem  
Serem throws the throw back onto the bed. He brandishes his club and torch.

Ruran  
Ruran nods at the wight and minions. They look on blankly but at the ready for commands. Ruran looks back at the rest of the group.

“Yes.”

Merimna  
“Good. Everyone follow my lead but be ready to attack if things go south.”

Merimna leads them into the last stretch of the tunnel, presumably, keeping Ruran’s undead beside her for quick defense or trap fodder.

DM  
The tunnel feeds into a cavern where a massive, curving stone carving protrudes from the floor, wall, and ceiling. The stone is covered in strangely familiar runes.

But as soon as Racaille and Serem’s torchlight breaks over the bend of the tunnel, two small, blubbery shapes break off from the darkness of the cavern mouth. They gibber and howl into the cavern. A tall, elven shadow moves across the face of the curved stone.

Ruran  
“Wait! We just want some answers!” Ruran calls out in their mother’s tongue.

They ready their wight and minions to attack in case the drow and their minions aren’t interested in the questions.

DM: @Ruran  
The blubbery creatures stay by the entrance, jumping and howling, but the elven shadow moves back into view. Its progenitor holds a crossbow in hand but lowers the tip downward.

“There are no drow in Riddleport,” she replies in the same tongue, her voice as cold and ringing as a bell in winter.

Medomai  
“I didn’t catch any of that” says Medomai, his crossbow still up.

Ruran: @DM  
“Yeah, because the only drow in Riddleport died. I’m her child. Well, not anymore.”

DM  
The blubbery creatures cease their jumping and jowling.

“Lay down your weapons,” says the elf in the common tongue of Taldan. “Then you may enter.”

Racaille  
Racaille counts three beings in the cavern. There could easily be more, but it seems unlikely, judging from the movement of the shadows. 

He needs weapons to be effective, but Serem’s are built-in and Ruran and Medomai have some magic. Surely that’d be enough to buy him and Merimna time to get armed. 

Racaille lays down his short sword. He palms his dagger up the sleeve of his leaf armor just in case.

DM: @Racaille  
Not even a professional knife-sniffing demon could find that dagger.

Serem  
Serem drops his club but keeps the torch. This is a pleasant surprise, especially considering how they’d rampaged their way through the rest of the tunnels.

Merimna  
Oh good, she understands Common. That’s a necessity for the bulk of Merimna’s enchantments. The dhampir half-elf happily lays her bow onto the tunnel floor.

Ruran  
Ruran parks their small undead army outside the cavern entrance. Their breath shortens, their head growing lighter, almost dizzy.

Medomai  
Medomai nods at Mina. She’s the only reason he un-cocks his crossbow and sets it down.

“Alright, we’re unarmed. We’re coming in.”

DM  
Past the two small, bloated guard creatures, the elven woman stands by a table at the back of the cavern. Her skin is inken black with purplish sheen, her hair an ethereal silver-white. A slender bayonet extends from the tip of her hand crossbow. Chain as light and fine as silk drapes her tall, athletic form.

Her solid white eyes flick between Ruran and Merimna and then to Medomai.

“So you’re a spellcaster. Who was she? Your mother?”

Ruran  
The name surges up onto Ruran’s tongue. But before they speak, they look to Merimna.

Merimna  
Merimna smiles at Ruran from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes never leave Kwava’s renegade drow.

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works. You’ll get your answers after we get ours.”

Medomai  
“Spellcasters as we are, we’re not as helpless as you’d intended,” Medomai helps.

DM  
The drow narrows her eyes to solid white slits, her mouth hardening to a grim line. She has called your bluff/threat and found it wanting.

“Impudent half-bloods,” she snarls, “I’ll rid this world of your stain myself!”

The drow fires her crossbow. In her rage, she fires between Merimna and Medomai rather than at a single one of them. The bolt flies into the cavern wall and ricochets off into the blubber of one of her guards.

Ruran  
Ugh, Medomai was not kidding about the racism at the Gold Goblin or thereabouts.

Ruran lets loose their wights of war onto the wounded guard. As for the racist drow, they reach into their pocket and withdraw their leather-stitched poppet.

DM: @Ruran  
The wight slams the small, wounded guard in their blubbery chest, but the creature doesn’t go down. Then the lizard minions fall on the guard with their clubs. The guard goes down, doomed to rise.

The poppet’s magic strings ensare the drow’s spine. The drow’s eyes widen in realization sudden but still too late. She screams as Ruran shakes her spine and snaps it in five places. Then the drow screams no more.

Merimna: @Ruran  
“Fuck you, Ruran! I had plans for that racist bitch!”

Medomai  
“Can this wait until after we’ve dealt with this last...thing?” Medomai asks, pressing himself flat against the furthest wall.

DM  
The blubber guard conjures a yellow cloud stinking of the worst bout of sulfurous passed gas imaginable. Only Merimna and Racaille and the undead army are spared the sudden, overwhelming urge to empty their guts onto the cavern floor.

Merimna  
Merimna, unleashing a heated stream of curses, picks up the drow’s hand crossbow and fires at the disgusting blubber nugget.

DM: @Merimna  
The unfamiliar weapon nearly flies out of Merimna’s hand at her awkward touch. The bolt goes very, very wide.

Serem  
Serem clamps both hands over his nose and mouth and runs out of the stinking cavern, opportunity attack be damned.

DM: @Serem  
The guard claws into Serem as he passes, but leaves nothing more than a scratch.

Racaille  
“Give me that,” Racaille barks through gritted teeth.

He takes the hand crossbow from Merimna and tries it himself.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s touch is identically awkward, his shot identically shameful.

Ruran  
Ruran runs out from the cavern behind Serem. They leave the wights and newly increased minion count to deal with the last stinking guard.

DM: @Ruran  
The single stinking guard never stood a chance against a small army, now including their newly undead-ed brethren. The guard goes down, similarly doomed.

The stinking cloud dissipates upon the creature’s first death.

Medomai  
Medomai gingerly pries himself off the wall. He breathes and moves slowly until the urge to vomit well and truly passes.

He retrieves his crossbow and returns to take a closer look around.

DM: @Medomai  
The curved stone passing through the chamber is covered in familiar runes--a slice of the massive Cyphergate that soars over the entrance to Riddleport’s harbor. A few of the runes have been chipped away.

The nearby table nearby holds an adamantine chisel and a thin book.

Merimna  
Merimna stalks across the chamber in the dissipating cloud and slaps Ruran across the face.

“Cross me again, and I’ll kill you.”

Serem  
Serem re-enters the cavern, club in hand, just in time to see the resounding smack. The club drops from his hand. His feet shift subtly onto the balls, muscles tensing to spring forward.

Racaille  
Racaille blinks at the slap. And immediately walks off to loot the drow’s broken body. The necromancer and the murder-twin could kill each other for all he cared. That would, in fact, be the best possible outcome.

DM: @Racaille  
Beside her bayoneted hand crossbow, the drow carries five vials of a dark, unctuous liquid, mithral chainmail, a buckler, a masterwork short sword, a ring, and a pair of exquisitely crafted slippers.

Ruran  
Ruran’s eyes heat and prickle at the sharp burst of pain. They stagger back from the seething Merimna. They open their mouth, but their throat clenches into a hot, tight wad.

Ruran backs further off, turning to face the entrance. The air’s cooler out there. Easier to breathe.

They break into a full sprint out of the cavern. Their undead army races out with them.

Medomai  
Medomai looks up to see the blubbery vanguard’s exit. That could definitely have been handled better. Still, that’s one less share to parcel out. He looks back at the book on the desk.

DM: @Medomai  
While the book is written in a foreign language, parts of it clearly note financial dealings. Others contain diagrammed sketches of runes and glyphs from the hunk of Cyphergate.

Merimna  
Merimna watches steely-eyed as Ruran runs off crying. Little bitch. Her hands curl into fists. Merimna’s clearly in the right, but even she has to admit that was a waste of a useful and mostly competent underling.

She joins Meda at the table, looking over his shoulder at the journal. Of-fucking-course it’s in the language only Ruran understands. She drops her forehead against the back of his shoulder and lets out a long, low sigh.

Serem  
Serem side-steps out of Ruran and the undead’s path. The group shouldn’t have parted this way, but they had. Better just to let it go, let the world keep turning.

Serem wends his way over to Racaille stripping down the drow’s mangled corpse. He pats the Chelaxian’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna get the wolf throw.”

Racaille  
Racaille throws Serem a stiff smile over his shoulder.

“Sure.”

It’s better than she deserves, but more deserved than being turned into a mindless undead abomination along with her gibbering minions. He forces the bitter thoughts from his mind. Ruran, good riddance. There’s looting to do.


	17. Log 17

DM  
Ruran is the first to return aboveground. As they leave they Gold Goblin, they immediately notice that the shadow in the sky...is no more.

Ruran  
Ruran stares hollow-eyed at the light that’s finally reached the massive stone curve of the Cyphergate. Cypherportal, maybe. Is that what you call a gate that forms a circle?

They walk alone and aimless into the street. They’d used the wight to “re-dead” its minions at the treasure chest pool. The wight, they’d killed themself. It’d burst apart into ash and bones, never to rise again.

The necromantic stink lingers in Ruran’s clothes, hair, and skin. Better just to find another morgue to work for. That’s where they blend in. That’s where they belong.

Ruran’s feet turn toward the rotten heart of the criminal city, aimless no more.

DM  
By the time Medomai, Merimna, Serem, and Racaille return to the surface, it’s already night. As they exit the thoroughly ransacked Gold Goblin, a flash in the sky catches their attention. It catches the attention of all of Riddleport.

The streak of light arcs down from the sky. It lengthens, hurtling directly at Riddleport.

The night streets, crowded with onlookers, erupt into a screaming, stampeding panic. They barrel into Racaille, Serem, and Medomai, bruising the former two and nearly knocking the latter under their trampling feet.

Racaille  
Racaille curses and presses his back flat to the nearest wall.

Serem  
Serem ducks into an alley out of the way of the crowd if he can. If he can’t, he sticks to the wall with Serem.

Merimna  
Merimna, expertly weaving her way through the maddening crowd, leads Medomai by the hand. She pulls him into the nearest alley.

Medomai  
Medomai can’t hear anything over the screaming panic. The star falling upon Riddleport has left his body cold and numb. They’d have been safer back below ground, but it’s too late. He looks up at the streaking light, squeezing Mina’s hand.

DM  
The light of the falling star draws nearer, brighter, burning. But the arc takes an angular unnatural turn--not drawn but yanked from its path by an unknown, equally weird force. The star trails out from the city to the sea. An impossible dawn rises from the south on the wings of a brilliant blast of light and smoking thunder.

The earth quakes under your feet. Shingles fall from the roofs to shatter in the streets. Windows shatter in their frames. An angry orange ball of fire rises from the horizon, spreading over a black, mushroom-shaped cloud.

Like moths to a flame, the crowd in the streets heads toward the southern wharves to watch the death of the Blot, Riddleport’s very own star and shadow.

Racaille  
Racaille pries himself off the wall. He shakes his head at the flame-bound crowd. How is that NOT a terrible idea?

“Guys, I’m out. There’s no way this ends well. Serem, it’s been real. Merimna, Medomai--let’s not meet again.”

He takes off toward the north, as far from the burning ball on the horizon as he can. The murder-twins aren’t going to follow him. They’d already divvied up the loot back in the caves.

Serem  
“Bye, Racaille!” Serem shouts after him, waving an arm.

He turns to Merimna and Medomai. He’s not smiling but his face isn’t unkind.

“Take care and maybe we’ll meet again. I’m going to go get a better view.”

Serem plants the ball of his newly slippered foot against the wall of the nearest, sturdiest building. The magic on the drow’s slipper activates, a spell of spider climbing, according to the murder-twins. He dashes vertically up the wall and leaps up onto the rooftop.

Merimna  
Merimna shakes her head as Serem disappears onto the rooftop. Talk about power going to one’s head. No, Racaille had the right idea. She walks out from the alley offering her hand back for Meda.

“Let’s not die here, shall we?”

Medomai  
Medomai takes his sister’s hand.

“Never,” he smiles.

He runs off north by her side.

DM  
Serem, the only one left with a view, is left to wait for only a few paltry minutes. Down below, the waters of Riddleport Bay retreat into an unnaturally low tide. They pull back over sunken wrecks, flopping fish, and stranded sharks. 

In the pit of his gut, Serem knows exactly what this is. Tsunami.

A 7-foot-high wall of churning froth slams into the waterfront.

Everyone in 70 feet of the shore is struck by the wave and thrown inland. They flail in the water desperate for any holds as the impossible tide recedes, sucking them under and out to sea.

Wave after wave, smaller than the first, crashes again into the harbor. Wood screeches and snaps. Piers and ships upturn. They smash against the stonework of the docks. Buildings nearest the waterfront cave and fall into the sea.

The light fades from the smoke-filled horizon. The screams do not.

Serem  
Serem sinks to his knees at the roof’s edge. There was nothing natural about the disaster that collapsed the southern coast of Riddleport in one fell swoop. And there’s no way this will be the end of it.

Riddleport’s Blot had landed. Its weirdness had only just begun.

DM  
Over the next several hours and well into the true dawn, the crimelords and overlord of Riddleport mobilize in a way rarely seen in the near-lawless city. Boss Croat, Clegg Zincher, Overlord Cromarcky and others work together to put out fires, save citizens who’ve been swept into the harbor, and kill the dangerous sea creatures stranded in the city streets.

Daylight confirms that the falling star struck an island south of Riddleport, Devil’s Elbow. Fortunately, the island has been uninhabited ever since fire and pestilence killed off its villagers a century ago. That is, perhaps, the only good news for Riddleport.

The cost of the damage to buildings and structures rises into the tens of thousands of gold. The total number slain or swept out to sea will never be known. Those who weren’t directly harmed by the wave have little compassion for those who do. Those who were affected are forced to turn the event from disaster into opportunity. 

In the days and weeks that follow, the chaos on the waterfront makes for ripe grounds for smugglers, looters, and other violent  
criminals. Ships that were further out to sea return to find many of their competitors no longer able to work against them. The balance among the city’s various powers that be shifts dramatically.

After the initial shock of the falling star and its impact subside, the implications of the event sink in. Skymetal has arrived in Riddleport’s own backyard.

Skymetal, in any of its seven known varieties, is a valued  
and much sought-after commodity in any society. With Riddleport’s Gas Forges being one of Varisia’s only operations capable of smelting such difficult metals, the convenience of the fallen star has many of eager for a chance at “easy” money.

The damage done to Riddleport’s waterfront and its ships puts a temporary hold on the burgeoning Skymetal Rush. But the race to be the first to reach Devil’s Elbow is on.


	18. Log 18

DM  
It’s been three months since the fall of the Blot, the erstwhile star over Riddleport, and since the erstwhile employees of the Gold Goblin backstabbed their boss and ransacked their workplace.

Serem  
Serem enters the seedy, permanently stained Port-o-Barrel tavern on slippered feet, silent as a ghost. He flings himself haphazardly into his favorite booth. His own dirt and blood smears don’t make a difference here. If anything, they add to the atmosphere.

After the end of Saul and Goblin, Serem took up contract work clearing buildings and wreckage in the Wharf District of hazardous sea creature infestations and renting a room upstairs. Now in the fourth month since the tsunami, the contracts are getting harder to come by. He’ll either have to branch out or look for a different line of work--thoughts for after a drink or two.

DM  
A slender, bronze-skinned hand sets two wooden draughts of palm wine on the tabletop. A familiar, silver-haired elf scoots into the opposite seat.

“Hello, Serem.”

Serem  
A slightly screwed grin spreads across Serem’s face.

“Kwava! Cheers,” he clinks his pint to Kwava’s and takes a hearty swig. “What brings ya to the butthole of the Wharf?”

DM  
A violet eye twitches at Serem’s phrasing, but Kwava’s face remains cool and placid.

“You, as it were. The prospect of skymetal on Devil’s Elbow has drawn elven interest. Renegade, elven interest.”

Serem  
“Is ‘renegade’ a racist euphemism for drow?”

DM  
“The fact that they’re drow is incidental. They, plural. I’ve been advised by my superiors to request and purchase aid in dealing with them.”

Serem  
“Why me?”

True, Serem’s dealt with a drow renegade, but Kwava wasn’t there to see it. He and the others had dumped her fur-wrapped corpse into a black-watered pool under the Gold Goblin.

DM  
Kwava slaps a splotched, ratty parchment onto the table. It’s one of Serem’s old contracts for clearing a nest of reefclaws out of a flooded warehouse.

“That was my contract. You were the only one of the applicants who came through. That, and you already know who I work for.”

Serem  
Serem takes a swig, swishing the wine from cheek to cheek. There is that. He shrugs and swallows.

“When do we leave?”

\--/--

Ruran  
Ruran, glamoured, masked and gloved, chips the last barnacle off the formerly encrusted skeleton on their stainless steel worktable. One hand reaches into their lab coat’s pocket, fingertips brushing the leathery skin of their poppet. The other rests on the skeleton’s sternum.

Pink and purple tissue bloom and writhe out from under their hand, latching onto the bones. The fibrous net of flesh crawls up and down the skeleton. The latched tissues connect and thicken, filling out the body. 

The skin grows last. It clings and wraps to the sticky but bloodless flesh. The corpse looks as it did at the time of death only flatter like it’d been pressed of all its juice.

DM  
“They didn’t mention there was an artist at the morgue.”

The unfamiliar voice belongs to the four-foot, nonbinary ratfolk leaning in the doorway. He wears an unbuttoned naval jacket over his sleek, dark gray fur and a scimitar on his leather belt. An amulet engraved with a skull and crossbones, the holy symbol of Besmara the Pirate Queen, hangs from his neck. A gold ring pierces his mousy ear.

Ruran  
Ruran jumps at the sudden voice in the silent lab room. Their glance drops from the ratfolk to the body. They draw a paper sheet as slowly and inconspicuously as they can over its nakedness.

“Thanks,” they cackle weakly. “That’s not what customers want to hear. Sorry, I’m Intern Ruran. How can I help you or your deceased?”

That didn’t sound quite right, but they’d only interned at the Cayden Cailean temple morgue for the past week. They’d just been fired from the Urgathoan temple morgue where they’d worked for the past three months and where tact toward “life-worshipping fools” was of little to no concern.

DM  
The ratfolk’s long tail swishes and he pushes off the doorframe, uncrossing his arms.

“The name’s Mase Venjam, druid of Besmara,” he says, offering a pawshake. “I’d like to hire you to make a house call. To an entire island.”

Ruran  
Ruran’s hand freezes in Mase’s. There’s only one island of interest these days, Devil’s Elbow.

“Who died?”

DM  
“Avery Slyeg.”

The name of Riddleport’s number one smuggler and black marketeer is instantly recognizable.

“Or not. I’ve been hired by one of his frequent ‘collaborators’ to find out. He went prospecting for skymetal a week ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”

Ruran  
“You don’t need a corpse doctor for that.”

DM  
“No, I need a necromancer. I went to the Urgathoans first, but they demanded to keep any bodies uncovered/accumulated. They sent me to you as a more open-minded business partner.”

Ruran  
If it came from the Urgathoans, they’d definitely used the word “cheaper”. Ruran sighs. It’s true.

“So we find Slyeg, convert him to undeath, and walk him back to his collaborator on his own two feet?”

DM  
“Sweet suckling kraken, no--if he can’t walk I’ll carry him. No, how much do you know about Witchlight?”

Yeah, no, that name isn’t ringing any bells.

Mase explains. Half a century ago, Witchlight was a village, the only village, on Devil’s Elbow. Then it ran afoul of the siren Virashi’s curse. The villagers slew the siren in the hopes of stopping it. A fire struck immediately after. Pestilence followed, destroying the farms of the survivors.

“There’ve been rumors of undead activity on the island ever since. I wish it were all sailor talk,” Mase touches his holy symbol to his muzzle and forehead, “but the Urgathoans vouch for it.”

Ruran  
Ruran sighs. That sounds about right. The Urgathoans might even have been the ones behind the pestilence. They did like to experiment.

“Yeah, I can help.”

DM  
“No price negotiation? You really are the corpse doctor I’m looking for.”

\--/--

DM  
After the tsunami, most of Riddleport’s ships were damaged. The first were only recently repaired with financing from the Cyphers, Clegg Zincher, and the Gas Forge. The only ship in the harbor without any compromising allegiances is the Flying Cloud, a four-masted vessel built for speed. With its narrow beam, sharply raked stem, and square rig, the distinctive design has streamlined the infamously fast Chelish clipper.

Racaille  
Racaille staggers up from the hatch onto the main deck, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. His head’s killing him, technically, the hangover.

He slumps with both arms over the rail. His eyes stare dully into the chop and froth below where the light can’t get to him.

DM  
“Easy there, bud,” booms a gruff but chipper voice.

Josper Cree, the young half-orc captain of the Flying Cloud, rubs Racaille’s back with an evergreen hand.

“First in Riddleport and we’ve already booked passengers! Can you believe it?”

Racaille  
“No. What a shocker.”

After the Gold Goblin affair, Racaille had left Riddleport for the big city of Magnimar. One week-long bender later, he’d woken up on the deck of the Flying Cloud on a practice speedrun up and down the Arcadian Coast. Josper’s a good guy but apparently the last stiff in Varisia to hear about the skymetal.

DM  
“--thinking we could invite them to dinner. I just caught all that reefclaw and we stocked up with bread, vegetables, wine--”

Racaille  
“Scratch the wine.”

DM  
“That was a whole barrel.”

Racaille  
“I didn’t know you were saving it.”

DM  
“Racaille, I’m saying this because I care about you--this isn’t healthy. You need to get a hobby or start doing some work around here or something.”

Racaille  
“You’re right, Josper.”

When that hobby, job, or something fell into his lap, then Racaille would absolutely start on that shit. Until then, there were always more wine barrels in need of disappearing.

DM  
Racaille, testing fate with that attitude get his answer--never test fate. Who should walk up the gangplank onto the ship but two elves from his past looking as though they’d walked out of his life only yesterday.

Serem  
“Racaille!” Serem runs up and over to Racaille’s side of the clipper for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

Racaille  
Racaille gives Serem a good one. That ox of an elf hasn’t aged a day. Not that it’s been a lifetime since they’ve seen each other, but it definitely feels that way.

“I’m the captain’s mate.”

Serem  
“First mate?”

Racaille  
“No. What are you doing going out to Devil’s Elbow?”

Serem  
“Not prospecting. Kwava’s contracted me to help with a job,” says Serem, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

DM  
“Thanks for not blowing all the classified information,” says Kwava dryly.

The gangplank rattles with footsteps behind him. Up jogs a ratfolk wearing his naval jacket in a decidedly unofficial openness over his dark-furred chest.

Ruran  
Ruran walks up behind Mase as quietly as they can without the morgue shoe covers over their boots. As their line of sight clears the rail of the ship, they freeze mid-step. Racaille. Serem.

“Oh, fuck.”

Their eyes search the main deck for the other two.

Racaille  
“Ruran! What--” Racaille stops seeing them search the deck like a mouse for the cat. “The murder-twins aren’t here. It’s just you, me, and Serem.”

Serem  
“You mean the best reunion ever?” Serem laughs, spreading his arms. “Ruran, get in here.”

Ruran  
Ruran boards cautiously, but no Merimna or Medomai suddenly pops out of a hatch or barrel just like Racaille said. The knot in their chest releases. 

Ruran walks across the deck to Serem, picking up the pace with each step. They’re running by the time they reach him. Ruran jumps into his embrace, squeezing him as tight as a teddy bear.

Racaille  
Racaille quirks a brow behind Ruran’s back. He doesn’t remember Ruran and Serem being that close, and it sounded like they hadn’t seen each other since the team fall-out. Had something happened in those tunnels?

Serem  
Serem rests his chin on Ruran’s head, holding them tight. He only gives Racaille a tight-lipped smile. A little wonder wouldn’t kill the Chelaxian. It might even loosen him up a bit.

DM  
“Who’re your friends, Intern?” ask Mase.

After introductions have been made, Captain Cree invites everyone to make themself comfortable while the ship readies to set sail for Devil’s Elbow within the hour.

“I’d also like to invite you all to a dinner of fresh reefclaw, vegetables, bread, and a fine vintage of...oh, ah, water. We’ll arrive tomorrow morning. Perhaps Racaille can show you all to your rooms?”

He grins expectantly at Racaille, jade green hands folded in ‘please’.

Racaille: @DM  
“Yeah, you should follow me,” Racaille sighs.

DM  
Racaille leads everyone down one of two hatches to the lower deck’s galley and hold. A few bunks built along the hull provide  
reasonably comfortable sleeping arrangements, leaving the central reach for cargo, taking meals, and relaxing. Ladders connected to the hatches provide access both to the main deck above and the orlop deck used for the ship’s storage below.

Ruran  
Ruran stows their small but durable travelling pack under their bunk. They immediately head back up to the main deck. They’ve never been on a ship before, much less seen one set sail.

Racaille  
Racaille leans against the wall separating the galley from the captain’s cabin, arms folded across his chest. His eyes drift from Kwava to the ratfolk. 

Kwava’s a stiff, but at least he’s a known factor. A ‘druid of Besmara’ travelling with life-desecrating Ruran doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Serem  
Serem stows his pack in the bunk between Ruran’s on one side and Kwava’s on the other.

“I’m headed up. Thanks for the tour.”

He pats Racaille’s shoulder and climbs up the hatch.

DM  
“Thanks,” Kwava says as well, though his tone is considerable flatter.

He says nothing more, climbing up after Serem with an air of ‘official EBI business’. 

Mase, however, saunters over, tail flicking. A rakish, toothy grin spreads across his muzzle.

“You’re throwing a lotta daggers for a guy in the dark. Ask me anything. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Ruran  
Ruran leans on the rail with the recently repaired Riddleport wharves on one side and on the other, the mouth of the harbor under the Cyphergate’s arch. They rest their chin in their hands with a nervous, eager smile.

Racaille  
“Fine. What are doing with a necromancer? You’re a druid. Isn’t that against your vows or something?”

DM: @Racaille  
Mase bursts into full-bellied laugh, whiskers twitching.

“Besmara’s got more pressing concerns than who’s stealing souls from the afterlife. She IS a pirate herself. But I’m not with Ruran--I hired them for protection. You ever heard of Witchlight?”

Serem  
Serem joins Ruran leaning on the rail, his back to the water. He looks out toward the harbor. The Cyphergate. He can’t quite pin down why that one gods-damned memory is so unpleasant and unshakeable.

“Ever get the feeling you’re supposed to be somewhere?”

Ruran: @Serem  
Ruran picks their head up off their hands to shake it.

“I don’t believe in fate.”

As much of an improbable coincidence as it is for the three of them all to be here, it’s still just coincidence. 

DM  
“All aboard!”

The Flying Cloud sets sail with the setting sun. As Mase regales Racaille with the history, curse, and suspected haunting of your island destination, the Riddleport coast vanishes to a lamplit outline between the Cyphergate arches.


	19. Log 19

DM  
As promised, everyone receives an invitation from Captain Josper Cree to join him at dinner in his cabin at eight o’clock. By this time, the Flying Cloud has sailed into dark, open waters with nary a sight of land. The constellations shine bright above and those on deck can even see brighter shine of Castrovel the Green and Akiton the Red, the two planets on either side of Golarion.

Down in the galley, Kwava and Mase Venjam opt for slightly more formal wear. Kwava dons a leaf cloak over his leather armor and streaks his bronze skin with white paint. Mase merely puts on a loose white blouse under his naval jacket.

Serem  
Serem stays on the main deck to watch the stars come out. He goes down the hatch at the last possible minute, which is still enough time to nod appreciatively at Kwava and Mase’s costume changes.

“Looking sharp.”

Ruran  
Ruran stays up to watch the stars with Serem but doesn’t say anything. They head down thirty minutes before dinner to brush the salt out of their windswept pageboy. 

They look from Mase’s spiffed up outfit to their own second-hand travel suit. They’d never been invited to a dinner before, but a loose white blouse would definitely have improved their own appearance.

Racaille  
Racaille snoozes in his bunk until Josper comes by with the invite/wake-up call. He rolls out ten minutes to go time and runs a hand through his shock of black hair. Eh, good enough. Josper’s seen him much worse anyway.

DM  
Josper swings open the doors of the captain’s cabin at exactly eight o’clock.

“Welcome! Welcome!”

The furniture is spare--nothing more than a desk, a bed in the floor, and a large table ringed by mismatched chairs--but the smell of the warm, fresh food adds a comfy layer to the cabin.

Kwava hangs back until everyone has chosen their seat, but Mase steps up and pulls out a chair.

“Sit with me, corpse doctor.”

Josper’s welcoming smile never falters, but he does raise his eyebrows at Mase’s remark.

Serem  
Serem, with a playfully skewed grin of his own, pulls out a chair for Kwava.

“Sit with me, elf friend.”

DM: @Kwava  
Kwava looks at Serem flat and expressionless but sits down in the chair.

“Thanks,” he says, dry as a sponge in the sun.

Ruran  
As Ruran sits beside Mase, they glance at Kwava and Racaille. Those two don’t need a reminder of what they’d seen Ruran do to the dead.

“Doctor, not ‘resurrector’ or anything,” they say with a nervous cackle. “Intern, really, a corpse cleaner.”

Racaille  
Racaille squints at Ruran and their defensive rambles. But to be fair, he’s not standing on some moral high ground from which to judge these days. He says nothing, instead applying his silverware like thieves’ tools to the reefclaw shell.

DM  
Once everyone is settled, Josper is eager to talk about his desire to set sailing speed records between Varisia and Andoran, but admits he’s still months away from making the attempt.

“But that’s enough about me. What about you? What are your plans once you’ve gotten to Devil’s Elbow?”

Kwava turns to Serem, quirking one brow. It’s all Serem’s.

Serem  
Huh. Kwava’s testing him. Serem shrugs and answers, “We’re on an elf hunt. We’ll start looking at the harbor and just move inland from there if we don’t find our friends.”

Ruran  
“We’ve got a human friend to look for too, but we’ll try to stay out of your way.”

Ruran looks over at Mase with an urgent wink. Kwava could absolutely not see them working any undead puppetry if/when it comes to that.

DM: @Ruran  
“That’s right,” says Mase, clearing his throat. “Our friend was a prospector, so we’ll head to the Crater just down the coast first and move inland afterward.”

Racaille  
The warm, hearty fare goes cold and hollow in Racaille’s belly. His friend, friends if he waives enough of the past to count Ruran, have all these plans and goals. He hasn’t had a plan or a goal in almost four months apart from drinking his memories of the Gold Goblin affair into oblivion.

“Serem, do you think you might need a hand?”

Serem  
Out in the wilds of Devil’s Elbow, no. Serem’s been an outdoorsman since birth. But it looks like his friend might need a hand.

“Yeah, it’d be great to have ya with us,” he grins, throwing an including arm around Kwava.

DM  
“His pay’s coming out of yours,” Kwava mutters in Serem’s pointed ear.

Kwava abruptly pulls away from the friend huddle, eyes narrowed to violet slits. Mase’s nose twitches. The two set down their silverware and rise to their feet.

“What is it?” asks Josper.

Like Serem, Racaille, and Ruran, he, too, has failed to notice the smell from above. It’s unmistakable now on a wisp of gray curling under the cabin doors. Fire.

Ruran  
“Fuck!”

Ruran jumps to their feet. They dump their water glass over their napkin and tie it over their face. They run to the doors and place their hand on the wood, checking for heat.

DM: @Ruran  
Though wisps of smoke continue to whorl in between the gaps, the doors are cool to the touch.

Racaille  
Racaille ties a water-doused napkin over his nose and mouth as well. He pulls Ruran away from the doors by the shoulders and kicks them open.

DM: @Racaille  
There’s no fire in the galley, but smoke descends in pillars from the gaps of both hatches. Orange blossoms flicker along curiously straight lines above.

Serem  
“Jos, your sails are burning,” says Serem, his voice muffled by a third watered napkin. “What do you have to put them out?”

DM  
Josper, Kwava, and Mase are all on their feet, each with a wet napkin over their faces. Josper snaps his fingers.

“Water! The barrels are all below deck!”

He runs out of the cabin to a small door in the corner. He flings it open. Stairs descend to the orlop deck, the barrels in sight.

Ruran  
Ruran runs past Josper down the stairs. They grab a barrel by the ropes.

“Help! I can’t lift it by myself!”

DM: @Ruran  
“Right!”

Josper runs down and grabs Ruran’s barrel by the other side. Together, they make it up and clear of the stairs.

Kwava and Mase go down to get another barrel.

Racaille  
Racaille climbs up the ladder to the main deck and opens the hatch.

DM: @Racaille  
The lowest sail of each of the four masts blazes into the night from its bottom line.

Serem  
Yeah, no, that’s weird. Weirdness noted, Serem shifts. In addition to the usual horns, claws, and hooves that come with his increased strength, black tiger stripes streak across his olive skin.

He grabs as many barrels as he can and pounds up the ladder for all his increased balance and dexterity is worth.

DM  
Serem can grab a single barrel. He may have new balance, but the barrel throws it off completely. Half-way up the ladder, Serem teeters, a single wrong breath liable to send him and the barrel crashing.

Josper, Kwava, and Mase are too busy hauling more barrels up the stairs to notice.

Ruran  
“Careful!”

Ruran climbs the ladder just high enough to put steadying hands on Serem’s back.

DM: @Serem  
With Ruran’s assisting hands, Serem steadies on the ladder. He’s able to pass the barrel off the Racaille.

Racaille  
Racaille tears off the barrel cover. He grabs the bucket inside and throws as many pails as he can onto the first burning sail.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille tosses up half the barrel’s water onto the burning sail, which manages to douse the flames. The other three continue to burn ever higher.

Serem  
“Guys, that’s enough barrels! Get up there and help Racaille!”

Serem jumps down the ladder. He grabs the next and hopefully last barrel to haul up.

DM  
Josper, Kwava, and Mase ditch the barrel-snatching. They race up the ladder of the other hatch to help Racaille.

Serem’s moving too fast. The barrel slips in his grasp.

Ruran  
“Oh shit!”

Ruran slides under the slipping barrel and throws both hands up.

DM: @Ruran  
For someone with a negative strength modifier, Ruran gives that push their adrenaline-pumped all. The barrel slides back into Serem’s grip like a sword in its sheath. He successfully takes it topside.

Racaille  
Racaille taps the second barrel with his heel as he hauls the first barrel past it.

“You guys get the sails up there. I’ve got this one.”

He stops the barrel right under the next burning sail and starts hauling pail.

DM: @Racaille  
Josper, Kwava, and Mase jump to it. They drag the second barrel between the last two burning sails. With three buckets between them and one with Racaille, you manage to put out all of the sail fires.

The burned bottom tatters of the sails fly up into the night wind.

Serem  
Serem finally climbs all the way up to the main deck himself though he crouches over the hatch, offering a helping hand to Ruran. 

It’s dark, but he’s seen enough of the bottom sails to know they’re kaput. That, and he can hear them whipping like laundry in a gale. He lowers his napkin bandana to shout over the flapping sheets.

“Jos, what’s the damage?”

DM  
“We can make it to Devil’s Elbow,” Josper yells back, “but I’ll have to head back to Riddleport to make repairs. You’d have to fend for yourselves on the island for a whole week at minimum.”

“Aye, that’s easy enough,” says Mase. “Plenty of time to find our man, corpse doctor.”

Those with darkvision catch the ratfolk’s reassuring wink.

Kwava, lacking darkvision, lights a torch, shielding it from the wind with his arm. He gives Serem the slightest nod before turning to Josper with a skeptical squint.

“How did all four sails spontaneously combust in the exact same place?”

“Sabotage at the port, maybe?” says Josper, scratching his head under the band of his floppy hat. “I guess some spellcaster could’ve snuck on and point some kinda jinx--”

“Virashi’s Curse,” Mase hisses. “The island knows we’re coming, and it ain’t too pleased.”

Ruran  
Ruran frowns in thought under their napkin bandana. They’d met a mindless undead whose mere angry had been enough to raise their every victim into undeath as well. The siren with magic in life could’ve made for an even more powerful undead.

“Oh boy,” Ruan cackles weakly.

That doesn’t sound like something their entry-level necromancy can handle.

Racaille  
Racaille sets his hands on his hips, head bowed. It was a toss up. There were enough prospector hopefuls in Riddleport to pay big money for an invisible, spellcasting saboteur.

He’d also seen what the undead could do in the hands of a second-rate casino worker moonlighting as a necromancer.

Serem  
Serem shifts back to his elfin self. Whatever the cause, it seems the danger’s over for now.

DM  
No sooner has Serem shifted back than a spot of bright light flashes on horizon. It fades as quickly as it appeared, coming from the island.

“Yep,” says Mase.

“I vote we post a watch,” says Kwava. “I’ll start.”

“That--that sounds like a good idea,” says Josper. “I’m gonna take down these bummed sails. The rest of you should probably get some rest. We’ll make landfall at dawn.”

Ruran  
“Ok. G’night, all,” says Ruran, who would definitely fuck up the sails if they tried to help.

Racaille  
“Josper, I’m helping.”

Racaille proceeds to climb up the rigging of the nearest mast to get to the attached end of the burnt sail.

DM: @Racaille  
Josper opens his mouth, finger raised. His finger falters.

“Thanks, Racaille.”

Serem  
“Goodnight.”

Serem heads down after Ruran but doesn’t head immediately to bed. He stops in the captain’s cabin and grabs a snack of room temperature bread. Then shrugs and helps clean up the rest of the dishes.

Josper and Racaille would be busy with those sails for a while. They didn’t need to come back to pungent seafood drawing out rats and flies.

Ruran  
The movement and slight clatter of dishes from the captain’s cabin keeps Ruran from heading straight to bed. They pop their head in through the door.

“Oh, hey, I can help with that. I AM a master dishwasher.”

Serem: @Ruran  
“Sure,” Serem chuckles.

He hands off cleared dishes to Ruran, stacks the rest in his arms, and takes them up to wash with sea water.

Racaille  
Racaille shakes his head at Serem and Ruran washing gods-damned dishes in Kwava’s torchlight. He continues to work in the rigging without a word, but the corners of his mouth curl upward.

Serem  
When the dishes are done, Serem tousles the much shorter Ruran’s hair with a damp hand.

“Thanks for the help. I’m out. Goodnight,” he waves at the others.

Serem will take the dishes down with him in an emptied water barrel.

Racaille: @Serem  
“Goodnight.”

Ruran: @Serem  
“Yeah, no prob,” says Ruran, climbing down after Serem.

The second they flop into their bunk, exhaustion hits. But they’re not so exhausted as to forget drawing their sheet up over their head for when their full-body glamour winks out.

“G’night,” they yawn from under the cover.


	20. Log 20

DM  
A belltoll in the misted gray before dawn signals the sighting of Devil’s Elbow. The island is quiet as the Flying Cloud approaches. A low ridge forms a spine along its length, the slopes covered with dense forest. Two stone towers stand watch above the treeline along the ridge, one to the east and one at the center. A thin pillar of smoke rises from a point midway between the two towers. 

As the Flying Cloud sails by the northeastern slopes, no one on the main deck misses the crater left by Riddleport’s falling star. The crater is hundreds of feet wide and surrounded by an even larger ring of burnt trees knocked flat around the impact site. Kwava, Mase, Ruran, and Serem can instantly tell that nearly a quarter of the island’s all-covering forest was destroyed by the starfall.

Little remains of the buildings around the harbor as well. The heaps of rubble and leaning walls, however, have simply fallen into half a century’s worth of disrepair. The piers are no different, looking gap-toothed with all their missing planks.

As Josper drops the gangplank, several bright red, foot-long centipedes scurry out from under the pier. They haul 100-legged ass onto the shore and vanish into the rubble. Josper cringes and shudders.

“Well, good luck everyone. Racaille, you take care. I’ll see you in a week. Hopefully.”

Ruran  
“Thanks, Captain Cree.”

Ruran, freshly glamoured, shoulders their pack. They glance at Mase, then at Serem, Racaille and Kwava. 

Ruran approaches the necromancy-unfriendly group. They reach out toward Serem only to stop and lower their hand.

“Take care you guys.”

Serem  
Serem catches Ruran’s hand. He gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Hah, we already survived the end of the world. This island’s got nothing new to throw at us. Good luck finding your man.”

Racaille  
Racaille meets Ruran’s glance with a stern gaze but nods nonetheless.

“Good luck.”

He shoulders his pack and pulls Josper into a hug at the top of the gangplank.

“You take care yourself, mate.”

DM  
“I will. Promise,” Josper grins.

He gives Racaille’s shoulder a solid squeeze and pulls away, ready to raise the gangplank.

Ruran  
Ruran joins Mase’s side on the pier.

“Ready when you are.”

Serem  
Serem waves Josper off from Kwava’s side at the head of the pier. As he waits for Racaille, his eyes follow the dirt trail that winds from the broken-ass harbor into the woods. His mouth spreads into a skewed grin. The hunt is on.

Racaille  
Racaille walks up the misty pier as the Flying Cloud sets sail. He doesn’t look back. For once, Serem’s grin is contagious.

“Let’s go, boys.”

\--/--

DM  
Kwava, Racaille, and Serem slog up the steep, overgrown trail through the mountainous forest. Dark-winged birds wheel in the overcast sky above--turkey vultures.

Serem  
Flocking carrion birds never bode well for those made of meat. Serem lowers his gaze back to the trail, searching the undergrowth for any sign of predators.

Racaille  
Racaille casts a weary eye at the dreary sky. Vultures, yeah, that seems about right. He looks back to the road, also dreary. Something had better not pop up out of there.

DM  
Fortunately, the creature of the dreary underbrush has no concept of stealth whatsoever. Its crashing, branch-snapping passage through the wood could wake the dead. Out from the trees bursts a ten-foot-long, 1000-pound lion with a humanoid face, the wings of a dragon, and a scorpion’s tail tipped with spikes. The beast screeches at the sight of you, more surprised than you are of it.

Racaille  
Racaille draws his short sword and dagger from either side and slices crosswise at the beast’s side.

Serem  
Serem shifts and claws at his fellow chimera.

DM  
Racaille and Serem both cut deep into the beast. Kwava lets fly an arrow that promptly sails into the underbrush.

The beast roars in pain and rage, shifting back from Racaille and Serem. With a great flap of its mighty wings, it takes thirty feet into the air. The spikes of its tail shake and lengthen.

Racaille: @DM  
“Ok, so, confession: I’ve not been carrying a ranged weapon this entire time.”

Serem: @DM  
“I only brought a backup staff.”

DM: @Racaille and Serem  
Fortunately for those of you blindly devoted to melee, a crossbow bolt shunks out from between the trees. It punches right into the beast’s exposed underbelly.

Medomai  
A stunning but ghastly pale half-elf steps out from the misty trees. Medomai fixes Racaille, Serem, and Kwava with his perpetual, lavender-painted grin.

“Now this is a surprise. What are a bunch of ex-casino workers doing out in the wilds?”

DM  
“Trying to land a shot,” Kwava mutters, loosing another arrow. This one finds its mark in the beast’s punctured underbelly.

The beast roars. Its tail lashes. Four spikes as long as stakes but as sharp as knives fly at the four. There are three loud plinks as the spikes bounce harmlessly off Racaille, Medomai, and Kwava’s armor. Serem simply dodges, the spike whooshing past his tiger-striped face.

Racaille  
“Medomai, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you showed up.”

Serem  
“I’d give you a hug, but we’ve really gotta deal with our spike-chucking, flying lion first.”

Medomai  
Medomai chuckles and shoots off another bolt.

DM  
Medomai’s bolt surely helps whittle down the beast’s health. With Kwava’s arrow coming in for the assist, the beast comes crashing down onto the trail. Dust poofs up from the dirt only to be beaten back down by the first, staccato drops of a drizzle.

Racaille  
“Meda, do you have a camp here or should we be gutting this beast for meat?”

Medomai: @Racaille  
Medomai’s eye twitches at the use of his nickname but smooths over with a blink.

“I have arrangements. You could too, depending on how you feel about working for Clegg Zincher.”

Serem  
Serem brandishes the claws of both hands.

“I’ll gut ‘em.”

Medomai  
Medomai steps under the cover of the tree branches overhanging the trail as Serem turns the beast into flying lion mincemeat.

“Really, though. What ARE you doing here if you haven’t contracted with Clegg or Syleg? Or are you all working for the EBI now?”

DM  
“EBI outsources labor all the time,” says Kwava snippily, stepping under nature’s awning as well.

Racaille  
“Oh, hey, you should probably know we found that first renegade drow you were looking for,” says Racaille, joining the two under the leafy awning.

DM: @Racaille and Serem  
“So Serem said.”

Kwava folds his arms across his chest, not in skepticism but with some feeling harder to place.

Serem quickly discovers that the beast’s tough meat and hide will require at least fifteen minutes to process.

Serem  
Serem shifts back into his elfin form.

“Anybody got a dagger?”

Medomai  
“Glad to see EBI’s outsourcing to only the finest woodsmen,” Medomai chuckles.

He tosses his dagger to Serem and settles leaning against a tree to wait.

\--/--

DM  
Although it’s clearly visible from the sea, no overland trails lead to the cratersite. What’s more, the half mile of burn damage is covered in fallen trees and scorched earth, making for difficult terrain. The only signs of life are the flocks of turkey vultures wheeling in the skies above.

Merimna  
Merimna kicks up a clod of earth at the heart of the crater with a scream. A sweaty tangle of ash brown locks slap and sting her dirt-smeared face. She’s been turning this crater over with a fine-toothed fucking comb for the past hour. Now, it’s drizzling.

“Fucking perfect you Devil’s Dirty Asshole!”

DM  
Merimna’s shout rings and resounds throughout the crater. A heated, prickling silence falls over the scorched earth. Wisps of gray mist descend from the treeline.

Two pairs of footsteps shuffle through the dirt behind Merimna. Humanoids, their skin black with the death’s decay, stop at the top of the ridge. Their eyes have rotted to black pits, but an unnatural, swollen tongue swings through the bottom of their broken jaws. The tongues flick toward Merimna.

The zombies spring into action. They race down the ridge, wet dirt flying up from their knuckles and feet.

Merimna  
Mother. Fuck. Merimna fires two arrows in rapid succession at the nearest zombie.

DM  
The arrows tear through the rotted flesh of its chest but don’t bring it down.

The zombies skid to a stop on either side of Merimna, but they slide faster than they strike. Their slamming fists and lashing tongues whoosh through the air.

Merimna  
Merimna grits her teeth and fires into the wounded zombie.

DM  
Both arrows punch through the zombie’s skull. The first undead drops into perma-death. The other lunges at Merimna.

Only to reel back. The zombie straightens, standing still and erect while the tongue strains in its mouth toward Merimna.

Merimna  
Merimna lowers her bow and defending arm. What the fuck?

Ruran  
“Hi, Merimna,” says Ruran with a nervous cackle.

They direct the zombie to furthest reach of their bone-thralling aura with that not undead(?) tongue whipping around.

DM  
Thanks to Ruran’s unusually deep and eclectic studies, they do fucking identify the tongue as the larva of an alien creature known only as an akata. The larva has one week left to gestate.

“Nope, not Syleg,” says Mase, inspecting both undead faces from a safe distance.

The ratfolk offers a paw to Merimna with a jaunty grin.

“Mase Venjam, druid of Besmara at your service.”

Merimna  
“A pleasure,” says Merimna.

Her voice is warm but her eyes meet Ruran’s coolly. Sure, the necromancer kept her from being mildly inconvenienced by an alien-created zombie, but they’d also majorly inconvenienced her by ruining her most ambitious plan to date.

Ruran  
Ruran nervously, rambling-ly explains what they’re doing here with Mase to fill the drizzling silence in the crater under Merimna’s burning gaze. 

“So...what are you doing here?”

Merimna  
“I’m looking for noqual, the skymetal--what else would I doing up to my ass in dirt and alien zombies?”

Ruran  
“Mase, do we have time to look for some skymetal?”

DM  
“We could spare an hour, sure,” says Mase.

Merimna, Ruran, and Mase spend the rest of the hour scouring the crater for noqual. While Merimna and Ruran turn up nothing but wet soil, Mase returns with a heavy shard of pale green metal. He turns it over to Merimna and shakes the mud off his paws.

“Hope that’ll do it for you, Longbow.”

Merimna  
“Oh, yes. Clegg’ll be beside himself. If you need a place to stay while you’re here, come by the camp and don’t say I don’t pay my debts.”

Ruran  
“Clegg? Zincher? The crimelord?”

Merimna  
“That’s the one.”

DM: @Merimna  
“Maybe you could mark it on our map,” says Mase, pulling out the waterproof parchment.

Ruran  
“Thanks, Merimna.”

Merimna  
Merimna merely smiles. More like, thank you. This shit was worth six times its weight in gold.

Merimna’s going to stay here and spend the morning from the afternoon searching for more noqual, alien zombies be damned.

DM  
Ok, then we’re gonna be checking in on Merimna later.


	21. Log 21

DM  
The village of Witchlight sits atop the island’s highest peak, offering a peerless view of the Varisian Gulf--black waters under its glum, overcast sky. The abandoned buildings have long since fallen into disrepair, not to mention the recent impact collapsing the weakest of the walls.

Racaille  
Racaille sighs and finger-combs his wet black locks out of his face. At least it isn’t raining anymore. He jerks his chin at Kwava.

“I guess we should search the premises for your perp.”

Medomai  
Medomai tucks his parasol away.

“Let’s split up,” he grins.

Racaille: @Medomai  
“Gods-damn it.”

Serem  
Serem shakes the rain off himself like a dog. It had actually helped wash off the blood and other fluid from the beast-butchering.

“I mean, splitting up’s more efficient. It’s just a village. Holler if you need help--I’m sure we’ll hear it.”

DM  
“And so will the perp,” says Kwava, dry as ever under his leafy cloak. “So avoid hollering if you can.”

Racaille  
Fine. Fucking. Fine. Racaille throws up his hands and walks off to the nearest building.

\--/--

DM  
Racaille approaches a stone house with a slate-covered roof. A portion of the roof has collapsed but the rest seems intact.

Racaille  
Racaille peaks through the windows for any sign of the renegade elves.

DM  
He can’t see any from outside the building.

Racaille  
Asmodeus’s balls. Racaille opens the gods-damned door and walks inside the janky-ass house.

DM  
Inside, the walls creak and the roof sags dangerously. The mere pressure of his footsteps causes the floorboards to groan dramatically. Racaille realizes that although portions of these buildings’ roofs remain intact, this is more a fluke than any real testimony to architectural design. 

Racaille  
Yeah, no, this place is definitely about to come down. Racaille heads out before it happens.

DM  
But before he can(!) the building shakes, an ear-stabbing creak tearing out from the walls and ceiling. They come crashing down.

Racaille’s reflexes are uncannily fast, however. Not only does he leap clear of the collapsing building, but even the flying shrapnel that would have knocked down the likes of his teammates can’t touch him.

Racaille  
Racaille, apparently landing on his feet, stands slow and turns to see what became of the house.

DM  
A sheet of dust rises from the flattened ruins of the old house.

Racaille  
“Clear,” Racaille mutters, rolling his eyes.

\--/--

DM  
Medomai’s building, while built of rotten timbers, still bears flecks of colorful paint. The structure has almost completely fallen in on itself, the roof long gone.

Medomai  
Medomai pushes the door open with the business end of his crossbow.

DM  
The door shrieks open on its rusted hinges, but nothing else stirs within.

Medomai  
Medomai sneaks inside and cautiously searches the room(s) inside.

DM  
Medomai, taking his time to comb over the ruin, discovers an  
old silver comb set with strips of ivory partially buried under a collapsed wall. It’s worth a pretty penny.

Medomai  
Medomai slips the comb into his silk sleeve and steps outside.

“Clear!”

\--/--

DM  
Serem’s large timber-and-stone structure stands at the edge of a steep southern slope, overlooking the sea far below. Large windows facing the village’s main thoroughfare suggest a shop, but the windows have been hastily boarded over. Several corpses lay near the outer walls of the building.

While this is a source of interest for the circling turkey vultures above, Serem notes that the scavengers have not yet landed to feed.

Serem  
Serem crouches by the corpses but keeps a wary eye open. Something was/is keeping the vultures at bay.

DM  
The corpses were slain by numerous slashing blows and what appear to be bite marks. More unusual, however, is the mutilated nature of their faces. Each body is missing its lower jaw; in its place is a nauseating, gray-green, twitching tendril that looks almost like a bloated tongue.

Serem  
A-hah. So it’s the corpses keeping the vultures away with their “tongues”. Serem is just gonna sneak back away from the “dead”.

DM  
Too late. The four undead rise in a silence broken only by the muffled slosh of their slithering tongues. They fall upon Serem with mindless fury.

Only one zombie’s movements are still nimble enough to strike through Serem’s guard. Its fist slams into Serem’s ribcage, snapping bone. As Serem staggers, its tongue whips across his face, draining blood and strength through spiked tendrils.

Serem  
“Guys, a little help here?” says Serem, shifting into his bull-tiger chimeric form.

He slashes at the zombie that took a drink out of him.

DM  
The zombie goes down, but Serem’s teammates are still too far off to reach the undead mosh pit.

A second zombie whales on Serem, slamming him in the chest. Its tongue, however, sloshes just past his pointed ear.

Serem  
Serem claws at this next contender for most dangerous, mindless bone-smasher.

DM  
The zombie drops in a heap of rotten gore and dark fluids. Its brethren strike back at Serem but to no avail.

Fortunately for him, the cavalry have arrived.

Racaille  
Racaille comes in sweeping with crossed blades.

DM: @Racaille  
Unfortunately, Racaille slips in the mud as he strikes. Both blades windmill aimlessly through the air.

Serem  
“Thanks.” 

He tried. Serem tries next, hacking at the nearest zombie.

DM: @Serem  
Serem’s claws shred the zombie to grisly ribbons.

Medomai  
“Kwava, get the last one, will you?”

Medomai whips out a wand and proceeds to cure Serem’s wounds. Lightly.

DM  
Kwava fires two shots from his longbow in rapid succession. They plunge through the zombie’s two eye sockets. It falls back now in perma-death.

Racaille  
“Damn. Mase wasn’t kidding about this place being haunted,” says Racaille, sheathing his blades.

Serem  
“Maybe. There was something off about those tongue zombies--more off than usual. And thanks for the healing,” Serem calls back over his shoulder.

He shifts back to his usual elven self.

Medomai  
“Not at all. Actually, you’d better let me give you one more for the zombie-infested road.”

Medomai fires off a final charge before stowing the wand.

DM  
Kwava crouches down in the space vacated by Serem and re-examines the zombies.

“These...weren’t created by necromancy.”

They are void zombies, corpses puppeted by the larval tongues feeding off them. The larvae belong to an alien creature Kwava has never encountered.

“Akata, I believe they’re called. There’s no chance these larvae will ever grow into--”

Lights burst in a thunderous explosion from the top of the last tower in Witchlight. A shower of vibrant golden-red sparks rain down its stone sides.

Racaille  
“Your perps wouldn’t happen to be the least subtle elves on the planet, would they?”

DM: @Racaille  
“I wish,” mutters Kwava before continuing at a regular spoken volume. “Nevertheless, that’s something worth investigating.”

Serem  
“Off to the exploding tower!”

Medomai  
Medomai snickers behind lavender-painted fingernails and follows the others onward.

\--/--

DM  
Ruran and Mase are trekking through the woods to Witchlight when the explosion of pyrotechnics goes off. Mase stops, whiskers twitching.

“Good news, we’re going in the right direction. Bad news, at this rate we won’t reach the village until sundown.”

More bad news. Nine leonine beasts come crashing and roaring through the trees. Unlike lions, they’re hairless and blue-skinned. Each has two tentactular tails and a mane of thick, lashing blue tentacles.

Ruran  
Ruran’s gut falls leaden through the forest floor. They can’t run through this underbrush.

“Mase--use your druid run and get out of here!”

Ruran’s hand closes around their crystal wand. They levitate twenty feet up through the trees.

“Come on, zombie.”

They send their zombie slamming and lashing at the nearest blue lion.

DM  
“I’m not that kind of druid!” Mase shrieks, his fur hardening like tree bark.

The void zombie slams the first akata for all its shambling worth. Bones snap beneath its blue skin. The tongue comes in for a blood-draining whip across the purpling wound.

The blue lions attack, biting and lashing. Five fall upon Mase in a blur of white teeth and blue tentacle, but none can breach his armored skin.

They’re so wild in their attacking, that two tentacles slam into the wounded creature, tearing through its flesh. The blue lion goes down, trampled by the three who attack the zombie. They bite and lash into its rotten flesh, but it doesn’t go down just yet.

Ruran  
“Hang in there Mase!”

Ruran holds their crystal wand in one hand and pulls out their poppet in the other. They point the poppet at one of the three blue lions on their zombie. Time to shake some bones.

Their zombie attacks a different nearby creature.

DM  
The poppet’s magic strings grip that beast’s spine and shake it like a child would a ragdoll. As it gets thrown about, bones snapping willy-nilly, the zombie even gets in a free, killing blow.

The void zombie punches the first of the two blue lions left on its tail. This time, it barely leaves a scratch.

Mase holds on as best as he can, slashing with his scimitar. He makes a solid cut but only infuriates the beast.

The blue lions attack. The two on the zombie leave it on its very last leg of hit point, singular.

Of the five on Mase, only one tentacle breaks through his armored skin. Its an ugly blow, tearing through the flesh down the side of his face. 

Ruran  
Ruran points their poppet down at the two dead blue lions under their zombie. Time to raise the cavalry.

They loose the first zombie and the two new zombies onto the two living blue lions.

DM  
The living aren’t prepared for the might and fury of the undead. The small zombie horde tears down the two into piles of blue flesh.

Mase slashes through the throat of the wounded blue lion. It falls dead up on the underbrush. The four remaining continue to whale upon the ratfolk.

Luckily for Mase, his armored skin deflects all of their blows.

Ruran  
Ruran cracks their neck from side to side. The cavalry isn’t enough. It’s time to get unholy. 

Ruran points their poppet at the zombie horde. A descretating veil descends upon them, strengthening their tentacles and slam respectively with sheer, death-defying energy.

They send their empowered horde into the fray.

DM  
The undead horde paints the town blue dropping two blue lions in under six seconds.

Mase hacks at the third. Fuelled on the high of the zombies’ success, he howls and sweeps his scimitar right through a blue lion’s skull.

The one remaining beast recognizes its imminent mortal peril. It runs back off into the trees.

Mase, panting, sweating, and bleeding, sheathes his scimitar. He cups one hand around his muzzle and yells up at Ruran.

“Tits of the Pirate Queen, you really oughta be charging more.”

Ruran  
Ruran lowers the crystal wand, descending back down to the forest floor.

“Thanks,” they cackle, “but are you gonna be okay?”

DM  
Mase pulls out a wand of his own.

“Don’t you worry about me, Doc. I came prepared.”

Ruran  
Ruran looks over their barely standing void zombie and the new blue lions. They’d also come prepared.

Ruran stows the wand and places their free hand on the void zombie’s shoulder. Necromantic magic sludges black from their poppet through the line of Ruran’s arms and into the zombie--healing for the undead.

DM  
Mase shivers at the unhallowed casting. But shrugs and taps himself twice with his wand. He rolls out one shoulder and then the other.

“Yep, that’ll do it. You and the horde all set?”

Ruran  
Ruran stows their poppet. Short answer, yes. Long answer…

“Mase, that burst would definitely draw the boys team. I can’t bring a horde of undead in sight of Kwava,” or Racaille, honestly, “but I can’t let them go in case we get attacked again.”

DM  
“We should really, probably, check out Witchlight at some point, but there are a couple of other places Syleg could be.”

Mase pulls out his map. He points at two marks on the eastern and western tips of the crescent-shaped island.

“These are lighthouses. We should have time to make it to one in about the same time as it would’ve taken us to get to Witchlight. Actually, no. We could make it to the eastern lighthouse.”

Ruran  
“Alright, eastern lighthouse it is.”

Ruran starts clambering over the underbrush. They stop, looking back over their shoulder.

“Thanks, Mase.”

DM  
“Hey, the contract’s dead-or-alive--Syleg can afford to wait. But you’re welcome, Doc.”


	22. Log 22

DM  
Witchlight’s fifty-foot-tall circular watchtower stands precariously on the edge of a steep slope overlooking the sea. The tower itself seems to be made of stone, yet no seams or individual blocks are apparent as thought the entire tower were formed from a single block of stone. 

Kwava gives the tower a wide berth, instead inspecting its precarious perch. He crouches over the tough seaside grass. A handful of gritty dirt runs through his fingers.

“The cliffside’s crumbling to sand.”

Medomai  
Medomai unlaces his fingers from behind his head and cups his hands around his mouth.

“What a terrible place you’ve picked to build a tower!” he yells up at its smoking top.

Racaille  
Racaille yanks Medomai’s hands away.

“What the fuck, Meda? We don’t know what’s up there!”

Medomai: @Racaille  
“Re-lax,” says Medomai, making no move to free himself from Racaille’s grasp. “That was definitely a cry for help. Whoever’s up there must be friendly. If in dire straits.”

Serem  
Serem shrugs. The logic works for him. He walks past Medomai and Racaille to the door. Serem knocks.

“Anybody home? And in need of help?”

DM  
The heavy iron door winches open. A familiar, Varisian half-elf with tattoos on her face and neck stands in the doorway. Her dark eyes open wide as saucers only to narrow at all four members of the team.

“YOU!” roars Samaritha. “What are YOU doing here?”

Medomai  
“Saving your ass, apparently.”

DM: @Medomai  
“Ragh! I guess!” says Samaritha, throwing up her hands only to jab a finger at the four. “But don’t think this means I forgive you for walking into a gods-damned murder scene.”

Racaille  
“Never forgive, never forget--that’s what I always say,” says Racaille, letting go of Medomai. “So what brings you here of all places?”

DM: @Racaille  
“Well, after the Gold Goblin fucking foreclosed, I had to get another job. Luckily, I’d been on the waitlist for the cyphermages and they hired me after that tsunami took out a whole Cypher squad.”

Serem  
“Right, but what are you doing HERE?”

DM: @Serem  
“Desna damn it, I was getting to that!”

Samaritha was on the Cypher squad sent to investigate the starfall. As fate would have it, the falling body was host to the alien creatures known as akatas that chased the Cyphers from the crater to Witchlight. Those who survived did so by barricading themselves in the watchtower.

“But our dead...they rose by themselves. They’re everywhere and so are the akatas--I need your help to move our wounded somewhere safe. If anywhere like that still exists here.”

Medomai  
“Lucky you. There’s a camp of noqual prospectors southeast of here large enough that we haven’t been targeted by the aliens. How do you feel about Clegg Zincher?”

DM: @Medomai  
Samaritha makes a face.

“Dying beggars can’t be choosers.”

Racaille  
“How many wounded do you have?”

DM: @Racaille  
“Only four now,” Samaritha answers soberly, her eyes distant. “None are conscious. It doesn’t seem contagious, but those akatas must’ve passed a disease onto them.”

Serem  
“Any elves with you?”

DM  
“Two, yeah, but they’ve been unconscious for days. Any glamour would’ve worn--”

Samaritha stops, her mouth agape. The blood drains from her face.

Kwava turns toward the forest behind you. Hairless, blue-skinned beasts like lions with tentacle manes crash through the treeline. Two dozen of them.

“GETINTOTHEFUCKINGTOWER!”

Medomai  
Medomai doesn’t need further encouragement. He runs in right under Samaritha’s arm.

DM: @Medomai  
A single staircase winds up the tower along the wall. The three upper floors are made of stone and reinforced with wooden timbers.

Racaille  
Racaille runs in and up to the second floor.

DM: @Racaille  
This floor serves as a field hospital. Each cot within contains one grievously wounded and unconscious cyphermage.

Serem  
Serem runs in after Racaille but dashes past him up to the third floor.

DM  
There’s a chest on the third floor containing an alien, pale green metal.

Two of the akatas chase Kwava to the door. Samaritha slams it shut behind them. The akatas only hammer and claw at the door, walls, and windows. Every second brings more of the alien beasts scratching and scrambling up the sides of the tower.

The window by Medomai shatters. Two dark blue tentacles lash through the broken glass. They clang against Medomai’s breastplate.

Medomai  
Medomai reels back from the window. He draws his crossbow and fires in retreat.

DM  
The bolt ricochets off the stone windowframe. It flies back at Medomai, slashing his pointy ear.

The window by Racaille shatters next. A dark blue tentacle punches him in the face.

Racaille  
Racaille instinctively hacks at the attacking tentacle even as he withdraws from the window.

DM   
Due to withdrawing, Racaille’s blades swipe clear of the tentacle.

It just so happens there’s also a window by Serem which, obviously, also breaks into a thousand crystal shards and sprouts two attacking tentacles. Neither of which are fast enough to land a blow on the elf.

Serem  
Serem shifts into bull-tiger form. Unable to withdraw, he might as well attack.

DM  
Serem’s claws rip the tentacles right off their alien host. The bodily tearing is so severe that the akata up and dies right in the window.

“How exactly have you been dealing with this?” asks Kwava, drawing his longbow.

He fires two arrows through Medomai’s window.

“It’s never been this bad!”

Samaritha whips a wand at the same window. Magic missiles whistle through the air. They explode against the wounded akata, putting it out of its misery.

The twenty-two remaining continue to throw themselves at the tower. The entire stone precipice shakes on its foundation. Everyone inside keeps their balance except for Medomai, who falls on his back.

Medomai  
Medomai sits up on his elbows.

“Well that can’t be good.”

DM: @Medomai  
It’s not. The tremor has stopped, but the entire tower has a distinct crumbling-cliffside lean.

Racaille  
“This entire tower’s about to go crashing into the sea, isn’t it?”

DM: @Racaille  
“...yes,” says Kwava.

“Then brace yourselves!” says Samaritha, running into a doorway.

She braces her arms and legs against the doorframe.

“Or make a break for it through a window, maybe? Or--”

A second tremor shakes the stone tower, this even more thunderous and violent than the last. Racaille, Samaritha, and Kwava maintain their footing, but the tremor throws Medomai and Serem to their hands and feet.

Serem  
“Ok, yeah, bracing now.”

Serem scrambles up off the floor and over to the nearest doorway.

DM  
The terrible screech of stone upon stone grows with every passing second. Then stops. The ground below the tower gives way.

The tower topples to its side. Racaille, Medomai, and Kwava are thrown into the air. For a moment, they hang. Up comes the western wall and its hard, unforgiving stone.

Racaille and Medomai land on their feet. Kwava smacks face-first into the stone.

The tower rolls over the screaming, western flank of the akata horde.

Serem  
Serem, braced in the doorway, just tries to keep his place.

Racaille  
Racaille makes a break for that broken window now that the tower’s rolled over the clambering akatas.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille leaps like a rocket-powered gazelle straight through the open window. And directly into the surrounding landslide--we’ll get back to that.

Medomai  
There’s really no time, but after witnessing Racaille throw himself directly into a landslide, Medomai’s not keen on charging through his window. Instead, he tries to run along with the rolling tower kinda like it’s one of those giant-sized hamster balls.

DM  
Good plan, poor execution. The tower’s simply rolling way too fast. Medomai’s feet go flying out from under him. He’s thrown into the wall right beside Kwava.

The tower’s stone screeches and tears. A man-sized crack rips open within five feet of Serem.

Serem  
Weirdly enough, this actually seems like one of those ‘better out than in’ situations. Serem throws himself through the crack and into the landslide.

DM: @Serem and Racaille  
Serem makes it through.

All around is a blur of fast-falling dirt, rocks, and crushed akatas. Here and there is the odd root or solid ledge of rock.

Racaille  
Racaille grabs for any root or ledge that he can.

DM: @Racaille and Medomai  
The earth and tower fall away under Racaille, but his grip is sure.

As the tower continues to roll, Medomai and Kwava slide down into new, brace-able cracks in the thick stone. Kwava, not convinced that this is a ‘better out than in’ situation, braces himself.

Medomai  
Medomai follows Kwava’s lead, bracing beside the elf.

Serem  
Serem grabs at any hold that he can.

DM: @Serem  
Serem’s hand closes around a root. He jerks to a stop thirty feet over the debris-churned sea.

Racaille  
“Oh good, we’re alive,” Racaille shouts down at Serem.

DM: @Medomai  
The tower smashes into the dark water with a deafening crash. Deep, spiderweb cracks erupt through the stone. Waves surge in through the shattering stone. They sweep Medomai, Kwava, and Samaritha from their holds.

Medomai  
Medomai swims out through any crack large enough.

DM  
There are plenty. Medomai swims out from the stone wreckage into a sea of slightly smaller wreckage and akatas thrashing in silent agony as their bodies dissolve in the saltwater like acid.

Samaritha and Kwava break the surface moments after him, each carrying one of the four wounded.

Serem  
Fuck! The wounded! Well, it’s only thirty feet.

Serem activates his ring of feather falling and dives into the sea. He’ll help anyone he can find.

DM: @Serem  
The surging waves appear to have knocked the last two wounded mages free of the largest pieces of the sinking tower. Serem’s strong enough to heft around both of their weights in the water.

Serem: @DM  
Then that’s exactly what he does. He breaks the surface spitting an arc of the salty water.

“All of us,” Serem shouts back up at Racaille.

Racaille  
In spite of himself and the entire kitchen fucking sink this day has tried to throw at them, a grin spreads across his face. 

“Serem, you beautiful, gold-hearted bastard,” he mutters.

Medomai  
Medomai spits out a mouthful of seawater.

“I didn’t catch that, but it looked like a proposal.”

He swims around any more dissolving akata bodies to the shoreline.

\--/--

DM  
The glow from the camp bonfire is visible from half a mile away. The entire camp stands in a wide forest clearing just off the western side of Devil’s Elbow’s main trail. One massive tent dominates the encampment, with three lesser olive-green tents to the south and a line of small canvas tents along the north end. The huge bonfire burns between the tents, issuing a thick plume of white smoke up into the starry night.

Merimna  
Merimna shoulders her backpack and heads for Clegg’s tent. She nods at the guards, weaving past the bonfire.

DM  
Clegg’s immense red pavilion sticks out in the forest setting. Easily fifteen feet tall and twenty feet wide, the tent is larger than many buildings in Riddleport.

The inside of this pavilion is divided by a curtain that runs from roof to floor. In the open front half, a massive, iron-banded wooden trunk rests along the north wall while a row of boxes lines the south wall. Four heavily cushioned leather chairs sit in the middle of the open space in pairs. A tall, wrought-iron candelabra stands in the center of the area, its twelve evenly spaced candles burning merrily and giving off a mixture of pleasant aromas.

The broad-shouldered, hulking Clegg Zincher rises from his desk. His second-in-command, the towering but graceful Garundi Akron Erix, breaks off her conversation as soon as Merimna enters the tent. She nods at the half-elf but doesn’t say a word.

Merimna  
Merimna nods back. She plunks the backpack down on Clegg’s desk. It lands with the heavy thud of fifteen pounds of green, alien metal.

“Is that a haul? Or is that a haul?” she asks, pulling out her cigarette and holder.

DM  
“That’s a haul,” grins Clegg, pulling out a cigar of his own.

He takes a good chomp and puff before jerking his chin at Akron.

“Pay the woman.”

Akron plunks a small but even heavier chest on the desk.

“Do you take ingots?”

Merimna  
“I do,” Merimna grins.

She blows two streams of curling, lavender-gray smoke from her nose.

\--/--

DM  
The forty-foot tall eastern lighthouse has survived the passage of time and the impact of the falling star remarkably well. Its stone walls are fully intact if encrusted with salt and grime.

A soft blue glow shines from the tangled undergrowth on the southern side of this tower. The cliffside here has eroded dangerously close to the tower, its edge now a seventy-foot drop to the rocky beach below.

Ruran  
It’s too dangerous for Ruran and Mase to investigate. Luckily, they’ve got fear-proof undead to check it out. Ruran sends one undead akata to do just that.

DM  
The akata just barely avoids bounding over the side of the cliff. It returns with a human skeleton in its tentacular mane. One skeletal hand clutches the source of the blue glow, a cold iron longsword. At their side clinks a rotted pouch containing 34 gold coins, 13 platinum, and a single garnet.

Ruran  
“Can you use a longsword?” Ruran asks Mase.

They sure can’t.

DM  
“Nope, that actually IS against my druidic vows.”

Ruran  
Ruran looks at the skeleton. They look at the silent tower over the cliffside drop. They look back at the skeleton.

“Would you mind if I…”

Ruran gives their poppet a little shake from side to side.

DM  
“Besmara’s official stance is ‘I don’t give a fuck’,” says Mase, complete with paw-quotes.

Ruran  
“Good. Great. Zombie time.”

Ruran has the akata lay the skeleton down in the grass. They remove the pouch but let the skeleton keep its sword and any armor. They place a hand on its skull, gripping the poppet in their other.

Raw flesh ripples and crawls out from under their fingers. Funny, this is exactly what they’d been doing when Mase hired them. They don’t stop until the body is completely covered.

“Time to wake up.”

DM  
The necromantic stench of death explodes from the corpse. It sits straight up, eyes popping open in zombified unlife.

“Looking good for a stiff.”

Ruran  
“All ready for an old creepy tower date,” Ruran cackles weakly.


	23. Log 23

DM  
The iron door of the eastern lighthouse screeches open on rusted hinges. Within, the wooden stairwell and internal floors have collapsed into a pile of moldering rubble.

Ruran  
Though extremely unlikely, Ruran searches the rubble for any sign or corpse belonging to Syleg.

DM  
All Ruran sees are two flickering pinpoints of light belonging to a dark, ghostly shape. The darkness attacks.

Ruran  
Ruran yelps and reels back, flailing. They can’t spellcast at this thing without knowing what it is first. But their undead can go at it as best they can.

DM  
The tentacles and fists pass through the dark shape like any shadow. Only the human zombie’s glowing longsword carves a path into the darkness, wrenching a disembodied shriek from its mouth area.

Meanwhile, Ruran identifies the creature as a wraith, an incorporeal undead with a life-draining touch. Like the wight before it, anything it kills will become its minion in undead wraith-hood.

Mase slashes at the wraith with his scimitar. Although the enchanted blade could hit it, the ratfolk simply misses.

The wraith, up close and personal with the living Mase, swipes a dark, ghostly hand at him. The wraith is also aiming for shit tonight.

Ruran  
Fuck. Ruran just can’t quite squeeze the wraith under their bone-thralling aura with this big of a horde. There’s only one thing to do.

They turn their crossbow on the void zombie a tad earlier than expected.

The “normal” zombie keeps on attacking. The akatas hold still but stick around to give Mase flanking.

DM  
Ruran’s bolt crunches through the void zombie’s skull. It stands there, bolt in head, still full of unlife.

The normal zombie swings a vicious, cold iron arc through the wraith’s chest. It screeches, furious.

Mase follows with another swing. He succeeds only in sinking his blade into the bolt-headed zombie. Its near arm flies off into the rubble.

This time, the wraith sets its ghostly hand right between Mase’s rodent ears. Mase gasps and shakes as the life drains from his skull.

Ruran  
“Shit, shit, shit!”

Ruran fires off another bolt. The normal zombie keeps swinging.

DM  
Ruran’s bolt punches back to front through the void zombie’s chest. It collapses as silently as it rose. Its tongue detaches, shriveling and writhing as the alien larva dies within.

The normal zombie swings, but neither its luck nor aim hold. The cold iron longsword lops a tentacle off the nearest akata’s mane.

Mase, breathing ragged, still slashes at the wraith. He tears through its shadowy form but nearly drops the scimitar.

The wraith reaches for Mase again. Despite his weakened state, he just manages to duck out of reach.

Ruran  
“Not one more touch,” Ruran growls.

They hold their poppet up at the wraith.

DM  
The wraith shrieks and screams. It claws at the ethereal wave of necromancy rolling out from Ruran and the poppet. But the magic’s too strong. It bulldozes over the wraith, completely demolishing its will. The wraith drops into perfect still and quiet.

Mase drops to his knees. The scimitar clatters and slides from his grasp. But his head drops back with a reckless laugh.

“We did it, Doc!”

Ruran  
Almost.

“Mase, I’ve dealt with undead like this before. It’s too dangerous to keep around.”

DM  
“No shit. Do you mind if I take a breather? Or do you need my help?”

Ruran  
“No, thanks, I got it.”

Ruran holds the wraith still. They direct the zombie to keep on swinging. They don’t let up until the zombie’s cut the wraith up into ghostly ribbons.

\--/--

Merimna  
Merimna sits on a log by the bonfire to eat her dinner. She laughs and jokes with the rest of prospecting crew, but all she can think about is her brother. 

Meda had been tasked with clearing dangerous wildlife off the trail to the harbor. He should’ve been back by now.

DM  
Speak of the devil, and the devil appears. Medomai emerges from the treeline at the far end of the camp. He’s followed by none other than EBI agent Kwava and Samaritha Beldusk, each carrying a wounded humanoid, Serem, carrying two, and Racaille, carrying only his own baggage.

With Merimna’s darkvision, she catches Samaritha’s slight, flustered blush. But when the Varisian calls out across the camp, she’s all business.

“Please! Help us! We’ve got some wounded!”

Clegg’s prospecting crew rise or poke their heads out of tents. Akron strides fully out from the great red pavilion. At the sight of Medomai, she comes to a stop beside Merimna.

“Friends of yours?”

Merimna: @DM  
“Coworkers,” Merimna replies icily. “Former coworkers.”

Although, they had taken her orders rather well in the past. Moreover, the one who’d ruined everything isn’t with them.

Merimna’s head tilts. She smiles much more warmly.

“They’re friendly enough.”

DM  
“Very well.”

Akron snaps her fingers at the heads poking out from the infirmary tent. The camp’s healers snap to it. They run to Kwava, Samaritha, and Serem and relieve them of their humanoid loads onto stretchers.

Akron turns her appraising, dark-eyed gaze onto Medomai’s followers.

“Come, sit and introduce yourselves. We have food to spare, at least for tonight.”

Racaille  
“Thanks,” Racaille says thinly at the implied threat of retracted food. “I’m Racaille, that’s Serem, Samaritha, and Kwava.”

He drops to a seat on the log beside Merimna’s, giving the other half of the murder twins a short wave and nod. He’s filthy and sodden, but the downright heavenly heat of the bonfire is solving half of that, too.

“You look well.”

Merimna: @Racaille  
“It’s the prestidigitation--cleans you right up. Care for some of that?”

Racaille: @Merimna  
“Yeah, actually.”

Serem  
“Hi, nice to meet ya.”

Serem un-slings his pack and rifles through it as he approaches. He pulls out steak after raw manticore steak on a sturdy hemp string.

“We’ve also got food to spare.”

DM: @Serem  
Akron raises her arched brows but gestures two crew members in aprons over.

“Your generosity is appreciated. We’ll have those cooked and cured at once.”

Medomai  
“Hey, Mina,” says Medomai, dropping down to a seat beside his sister. “If you’d be so kind, I could use some prestidigitation, too.”

Merimna  
“You really could.”

Mermina passes a hand over her brother first. The filth, grime, and water vacuum themselves out from his garment and person and vanish into the magic of the spell. She passes her other hand over Racaille beside her.

DM  
“I’ll bring word of your arrival to the boss,” says Akron. “Make yourselves comfortable but not too comfortable. You’re free to spend the night with Merimna and Medomai. If you wish to stay longer, you’ll need to make arrangements with Clegg.”

“The cyphermages--” starts Samaritha.

“Come with me.”

Akron leads Samaritha off to the red pavilion. As soon as they’re gone, you have a quiet moment to yourselves. Which is instantly broken by Kwava.

“Merimna, you haven’t seen any suspicious elves around, have you?”

Merimna: @DM  
“Other than our gods-damned necromancer friend Ruran pal-ing around with a druid of Besmara? No. Although…”

It’s possible that someone on the crew has seen something. Any such report would’ve gone to Clegg through Akron.

“Akron would know more than I.”

Racaille  
“Yeah, we took the same ship here but haven’t seen them since.”

Good riddance, honestly. Racaille would bet every last cent in his pocket that those two are purposefully avoiding them to let Ruran work their soul-desecrating magic in peace.

Serem  
Serem finishes munching his shared food quietly.

“Could you or Meda ask Akron about the elves?”

She doesn’t seem like the type to be very loose-lipped around the camp-barging strangers she’d known for less than an hour.

Medomai  
“Why don’t I leave this to you?” Medomai smiles at Mina. “You DO have a way with the ladies.”

Merimna  
“I do at that,” Merimna smiles back.

She’ll wait until everyone has settled down for the night to speak with Akron. Privately. In Akron’s private tent.

\--/--

DM  
Akron is one of the few in the prospecting crew who has her own private tent. It’s large, olive green, and to the immediate southeast of Clegg’s pavilion.

Merimna  
Merimna slips a single hand through the tent flaps and gives a finger-waggling wave on the other side.

“Knock knock.”

DM  
Akron pulls back the tent flaps, revealing a spare interior. There’s a single cot, a large leather bag, a desk and chair, and a small metal lockbox under the desk.

Akron raises her arched brows. She doesn’t smile, but she isn’t unfriendly either.

“Merimna, what can I do for you?”

Merimna  
“Actually, I’m here to do for you.”

DM  
“This is...a surprise.”

Merimna  
“Is it though?”

DM  
Akron says nothing, her mouth spreading into a small, bemused smile. She holds the tent flap clear and away.

Merimna  
Merimna slips into the tent under Akron’s arm. She doesn’t duck, instead letting her hair brush the underside of the Akron’s skin.

DM  
Akron shivers. She lets the tent flap fall and leans back against the edge of her desk.

“You realize we’re very close to Clegg’s tent, don’t you?”

Merimna  
Merimna sways right up into Akron’s face until their chests are a hair’s breadth apart. She tilts her head, biting her lip as she enjoys the prickles of their mingling heat.

“Better hold your voice then, unless you want to be heard.”

DM  
“He’ll hear anyway,” says Akron, her voice low and breathy with desire.

Merimna  
Merimna smiles wryly.

“Good. I can’t wait to hear you scream.”

She leans into Akron with a sizzling kiss.

DM  
Merimna’s seduction goes surprisingly, perhaps unsurprisingly, well. After an hour of being as loud as she pleases, Akron drops back naked and sweaty onto her cot. She reaches both hands up to Merimna.

Merimna  
Merimna laces her fingers in Akron’s. She leans down over the Garundi’s rising and falling chest for a final, naked and sweaty kiss.

“How was that?”

DM  
“More fun than I thought I’d have on an alien-metal-mining trip.”

Merimna  
“Speaking of,” says Merimna, lowering her voice for the first time tonight, “the miners haven’t mentioned anything about suspicious elves, have they?”

DM  
Akron sits up on her elbows. She looks Merimna squarely in the eye.

“Not the crew--Clegg and I.”

The crew were the ones to discover Avery Syleg and his prospecting crew all turned to void zombies. Clegg, Akron, and Clegg’s now-defunct bodyguards went to deal with the zombies to claim this, the current campsite, as their own.

Between the zombie exterminations, Clegg and Akron discovered not merely an elf but a drow, a wounded drow. When the drow refused to answer their questions, they turned to “interrogation.” The drow died of their wounds, but not before they told Clegg and Akron of their camp in the sea caves under the eastern lighthouse.

“Clegg would’ve attacked, but we lacked the strength after dealing with the zombies. Whatever that camp wants, they haven’t interfered with our prospecting, unless you or Medomai have noticed any signs of sabotage around the island.”

Merimna  
“No, nothing like that. Kwava, the hot, tight-lipped elf, has been hunting renegade drow since the day we met him.”

Merimna lays down on and over Akron’s side. She falls silent, letting her mind wander.

There’d been that renegade under the Cyphergate doing gods knew what. Now there are renegades here, where the star fell. The star...it fell right after the Cyphergate affair. It deflected somehow off the Cyphergate...and landed here.

Not somehow--magic, it had to have been magic. Any magic ridiculously powerful enough to control falling stars would absolutely have drawn EBI attention.

“Akron, how much would Clegg pay for us to clear out the drow camp and leave his crew the sole prospectors of Devil’s Elbow?”

DM  
“A lot. Three thousand each. I might be able to push him to five. But it would have to remain secret. None of the crew know about the drow, and Clegg wants to keep it that way.”

Merimna  
Merimna seals the deal with a kiss on Akron’s shoulder.

“Consider it done.”


	24. Log 24

DM  
We gotta quickly check in with Ruran and Mase before Merimna takes her info and deductions back to the group. So, this can happen any time since we last left them.

Ruran  
As the last stroke of the zombie’s blade falls, Ruran lets out a long, heavy sigh. They lean back against the tower wall and close their eyes. It’d only started, but it’d been a long night.

DM  
“Ruran?”

Ruran  
“Yeah, Mase?”

They crack open one eye.

DM  
Mase staggers over to slump beside Ruran. He slides all the way down to the rubble-heaped floor.

“I’m gonna have to call it a night. That wraith just sucked the piss right out of me.”

Ruran  
Ruran looks over at the zombie, now still. The tip of its softly glowing sword grazes the dusty rubble. The akatas stand behind it, their once-lashing manes frozen like fanciful statues.

They flick their poppet at the undead. The horde marches and freezes by the doorway. Ruran slides down to the ground as well.

“They’ll wake us if anything hostile comes by.”

DM  
“Handy, them,” Mase yawns.

He curls up against the wall.

Ruran  
Yeah. Quiet, too. Ruran curls up with their head in the opposite direction, feet-facing Mase.

“G’night, Mase.”

DM  
Mase would say goodnight, but he’s already sawing trees. 

Sleep comes for Ruran just as quickly it. With it comes the flashing compilation of all the memories from the Flying Cloud until the re-deadening of the wraith. In a word, experience.

\--/--

Merimna  
Merimna’s step is only slightly off as she saunters back to the tent she shares with Meda and now with Samaritha, Serem, Kwava, and Racaille. She enters without a word, a finger held to her lips.

Medomai  
Medomai sits up at the soft crunch of grass under Merimna’s boots. He draws his blanket around his shoulders but stays silent, waiting for her to speak.

Racaille  
This whole elf business doesn’t really affect Racaille one way or the other, but he’s stayed up to wait for Merimna’s report anyway. His pulse pounds the tiniest bit faster at the sight of her shadowed form in the mouth of the tent.

Serem  
Serem meant to stay up, but with a full belly and the warmth of the bonfire still clinging to his clothes, he dropped off the minute he laid down on his donated blanket.

DM  
Kwava gives Serem’s boot a kick. Samaritha shakes his shoulder.

Serem: @DM  
Serem wakes with a start and a snort. He shakes the sleep from his head and sits up on his side.

Merimna  
Merimna steps over Serem. She sits cross-legged at the center of the tent and takes a deep breath.

“The good news is, I know where the renegades are. Oh, and Akron can get us the big bucks for clearing them out. The bad news is,” Merimna looks directly at Kwava, “they may have magic giving them control of falling stars.”

Medomai  
Medomai turns toward Kwava as well.

“Is that so?”

DM: @Merimna and Medomai  
“Then it’s worse than we feared.”

Kwava stands only to bump his head against the top of the low tent. He sits back down on his borrowed cot.

“They can’t be allowed to hold onto that kind of magic.”

Racaille  
“Wait, but the EBI can?”

DM: @Racaille  
“At least the EBI could lock it away, safely. Who would you rather hand this magic over to? Riddleport’s highest bidder? Clegg Zincher?”

Racaille: @DM  
Racaille sighs, massaging his temple with a hand. Kwava had a point, but he’s too self-righteous a prick for Racaille to admit it.

Serem  
“Good point,” says Serem. “But maybe it could wait until tomorrow morning?”

DM  
Kwava mutters something to the effect of “sleepy son of a bitch” before stating with crystalline clarity, “Tomorrow. Dawn.”

Samaritha raises a hand.

“I can’t come with you--I have to stay and tend to the Cyphers--but I have some gear that might come in handy.”

She holds out a wand of magic missile, a wand of identify, enchanted bracers of armor, a ring of protection, and a fifty-foot coil of silk rope.

Merimna  
Merimna takes the bracers and the ring.

Medomai  
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

Racaille  
Racaille takes the two wands. It’s about time he gets some magic to work for him.

Serem  
The rope could come in handy, especially if they get into another potential landslide situation.

“Thanks, Sam.”

DM  
“Just...be careful,” says Samaritha, her eyes flicking toward Merimna.

Merimna  
Merimna reaches over and gives Samaritha’s hand a squeeze.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

Especially not with herself in charge.

Medomai  
“So where are the renegades?”

Merimna: @Medomai  
“They’re in the sea caves under the eastern lighthouse.”

Racaille  
Racaille turns to Serem.

“Sounds like that rope’ll be coming in handy.”

Serem  
“Hah, yeah. Guess we should call it a night.”

Serem lies back down and rolls onto his other side.

“G’night.”

DM  
Kwava wakes everyone from their various cots or floor blankets an hour before dawn.

“It’s time.”

With the eastern lighthouse a fixture on the Devil’s Elbow trails, you come upon the tower and its cliffs right as the gray dawn breaks over the horizon. The surf crashes against the rocks below.

Medomai  
Medomai searches the cliffside for anything that’ll make the descent easier.

Merimna  
Merimna peers over the side as well. They have Serem’s rope, but still. That’s a great big drop.

DM: @Medomai and Merimna  
If Medomai spotted nothing, Merimna spots less than nothing. It’s early. What are dhampirs doing wandering around in the daylight anyway?

Serem  
Serem pats both of the siblings’ shoulders and takes a look himself.

DM: @Serem  
A narrow ledge hidden between the uneven projections of rock winds down the cliffside. It ends at a spur of rock some twenty feet above the sea.

Serem: @DM  
“Hey, looks like we may not even need a rope.”

Serem waves the others over and starts down the trail.

Racaille  
Racaille follows right behind Serem, letting the archers and crossbower take the rear.

DM  
A cold, lifeless touch wakes Ruran and Mase. The undead have detected activity within thirty feet under the lighthouse.

Ruran  
Ruran looks down over the side of the cliff. They hastily draw back, pulling Mase into the lighthouse with them.

“They’re here.”

If they’re here, there has to be something down the side of the cliff. Wait, not just something, the renegade elves. Renegade...drow.

DM: @Ruran  
Mase’s eyes flick from Ruran to the undead and back.

“So what do you want to do?”

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran’s hands curl to fists.

“Let’s give them a head start.”

One long enough that they won’t know an undead horde’s following right behind them.

DM  
A fissure even narrower than the path gapes over the spur of rock. A wind like salted breath sighs in and out through the gap.

Serem  
Serem heads through the fissure first.

DM: @Serem  
Serem immediately triggers a sonic boom from the mouth of the sea cave. With the reflexes of both a bull and a tiger, however, he cannily side-steps the wave of pressurized, weaponized sound.

And into a damp cavern that floods with light at his entrance. Two elves with skin like liquid ink hiss out curses in a foreign tongue. The first draws a hand crossbow, retreating. The second draws a rapier and runs to greet the Serem with its stabby end.

Lucky bastard that he is, Serem’s dodge streak continues. The bolt flies past one shifted shoulder. The drow’s rapier stabs past the other.

Serem  
Serem takes on the stabby elf not with his claws but simply his quarterstaff.

DM: @Serem  
The heavy wood of the staff turns those whips and whorls lethal. The ends of the staff beat down the drow and bash in their skull.

Racaille  
Range-shmange, Racaille’s got something for that now. He whips out Samaritha’s wand of magic missiles and shakes it at the crossbow elf.

DM: @Racaille  
Sure enough, an ethereal missile of magic darts out from the tip of the wand to strike the drow unerringly. But doesn’t kill them. Not even close.

Medomai  
Medomai fires his crossbow over Racaille’s shoulder.

Merimna  
Merimna fires her longbow over the other, twice. She steps back for Kwava to do the same.

DM  
Medomai’s bolt plinks off the drow’s armor. The others do not. The drow drops to the floor of the cavern, riddled with arrows.

In the silence of their wake, water drips like scattered rain. The cave itself is cluttered with rubble and debris, much of which seems to be from a strange, blackened form of rock  
different from the rock that makes up the cavern walls.

Two tunnels curve from the cavern, one to the east and one to the west.

Serem  
Serem crouches by a hunk of stone. He tries to determine what it might be without touching it.

DM: @Serem  
Nothing’s coming to Serem. Except for Kwava, who stops behind the other elf. Kwava jerks his chin at the rock.

“The star that fell, it’s called a meteorite. That’s the rock without any of the noqual ore.”

Racaille  
Racaille inspects the body of the nearest guard.

DM: @Racaille  
The recently corpse-ified drow carries a potion, a masterwork chain shirt, a masterwork steel shield, and a masterwork handcrossbow with ten unused bolts. Same with the other.

Medomai  
“Honestly, we’re better equipped,” Medomai says, leaning over Racaille’s shoulder. “I say, sell it and split the profits.”

Racaille: @Medomai  
“You read my mind,” Racaille mutters.

He stows both drow’s gear but only to sell.

Merimna  
“If everyone’s ready, it seems it’s time we split up. I’m going to head west.”

Serem  
Serem thinks for a moment before he stands and dusts off his pants. Merimna and Medomai are both ranged combatants. They might need a tank.

“I’ll head west, then.”

Racaille  
Racaille blinks. Medomai’s obviously going to stick with Merimna, leaving Kwava as the last ranged attacker. And himself as a fast but glass tank. Fuck.

“Kwava, we’re going east, I guess.”

Medomai  
“That sounds about right,” says Medomai, falling into line with Merimna and Serem.

Merimna  
“We’ll meet back here in an hour unless one team dead-ends and catches up with the other. Good luck, boys.”

Merimna follows Serem into the west side-by-side with her brother.

\--/--

DM  
The east team follows a tunnel that has collapsed into rubble at several points, closing off several smaller tunnels. A wooden barricade stands at the end of the sole, surviving tunnel. Spidery runes in a foreign tongue sprawl across its length.

Racaille  
Whatever’s here, the drow didn’t like it. That could be a good thing for them. Or it could be an equally terrible death.

“And you can’t read this at all?”

DM  
“The drow use a language completely divergent from Elvish,” says Kwava. “And I wasn’t picked for my language skills.”

Racaille  
Yeah, no shit, Mr. Tightlips.

“Why were you picked?”

DM  
“I was...closest to Riddleport. In terms of location.”

Racaille  
“So the only reason you’ve been such a gods-damned hardass about all this is ‘cuz it’s your job?”

DM  
“Ye-es.”

Racaille  
Racaille shakes his head and pulls out his thieves’ tools. Some small, stowed away part of him respects that, but the rest of him refuses to.

“Ever here that one about working yourself into an early grave?”

DM  
“Your concern is touching,” says Kwava, dry as an Iroran monastery.

There’s no barricade holding back Racaille’s thieving tools today. The lock clicks open in seconds.

The door swings open to a large chamber rising nearly thirty feet. A very small hole at the ceiling center acts as a natural quiet. The solid stone reduces the constant crash of the ocean waves to a distant murmur. Moisture-slicked, mildewy tapestries and animal pelts cover nearly every inch of the walls.

Racaille  
Yikes, someone had chosen to live in this moldy, skin-rash-y hellhole. But, they didn’t seem to be here at the moment. Racaille looks for anything valuable they aren’t presently missing.


	25. Log 25

DM  
The some of those tapestries and pelts might’ve been worth something once, but thanks to the water damage they’re indistinguishable from the ones that aren’t.

As Racaille and Kwava search the cavern, Kwava for any secret doors, the pillar of light from the cavern’s eye above shimmers and waves. The pillar’s edges soften and sharpen into the ghostly form of a man-sized bird with a humanoid face nestled in the feathers of their head. Their ethereal, ringing voice freezes Racaille and Kwava as suredly as encasing ice.

“Where is my Yaris? What has happened to him?”

Racaille  
It feels like that name should mean something, but it’s not coming to Racaille. He glances at Kwava, passing the baton while he tries to fight the bird’s magical hold.

DM  
“I’m sorry, but your Yaris is dead,” says Kwava. “Everyone in Witchlight is dead.”

The bird opens their mouth with an ear-stabbing screech: “You LIE!”

The magical hold on Racaille and Kwava clamps down, crushing their flesh against their straining skeletons.

Ruran  
“No! It’s the truth!”

Ruran steps out from shadows behind the barricade. The ghost-bird’s magic sits like viscous syrup in the wet cavern, but it slides off either side of their spell-resistant aura.

“I can prove it.”

They beckon with two fingers toward the door. Their glowing-sword zombie, slightly more decayed since last night, shuffles into the cavern.

Racaille  
Nope, nope, nope. Racaille would be shaking his head if he still that much movement available to him. As it is, he keeps quiet and focuses on steadying his strained breathing. This could still turn out to be a magically-induced nightmare.

DM  
A muscle flexes in Kwava’s jaw, but he stays quiet as well.

The bird’s expression remains anguished, but they fix their human eyes on Ruran and the zombie.

Ruran  
Ruran looks over their shoulder at the zombie. When they speak, their voice carries their own undercurrent of black magic.

“Child of undeath, you’re from Witchlight aren’t you? Tell them. Tell them the truth of Yaris.”

DM: @Ruran  
The zombie’s mouth opens. Out rasps a voice dry as bone and stinking of death.

“Yaris is dead. I killed him in the lighthouse myself.”

Racaille  
Racaille forgets the breathing. Yeah, no, Ruran’s definitely going straight to the Hells when they finally kick it. They’d probably make an archdevil, too, with this much infernal-fucking-necromancy at their fingertips.

DM  
This time, the bird lets out not a scream but a whispered sob: “Yaris…” 

Their form shivers and waves. It fades back into the pillar of light. The magic holding Racaille and Kwava vanishes, dropping them to the cavern floor.

Ruran  
“Are you guys ok?”

Racaille  
“Well enough,” says Racaille, not brazen enough to claim they were better off before the necromancer showed up.

Especially while he’s crawling up off the cavern floor.

“What are you doing here? Following us?”

Ruran: @Racaille  
“Uh...not at first. We were in the lighthouse when you guys came by and woke the undead.”

DM  
“Undead plural?” asks Kwava, crawling up beside Racaille, his eyes narrowed to violet slits.

Ruran  
Ruran’s wince has gotta be answer enough.

Racaille  
“Great. Fucking perfect.”

DM  
“Ruran, if your undead leave these caves, I swear to whole fucking pantheon--I’ll take you in,” says Kwava, jabbing a finger in their direction.

Ruran  
“Got it. They won’t. Promise.”

DM: @Ruran  
Mase, surmising by the conversation that all danger has passed, pops his head through the doorway. He grins toothily at Racaille and Kwava.

“Howdy. You haven’t seen Avery Syleg around, have you?”

Racaille  
The hard line of Racaille’s mouth relaxes slightly at the sight of the irrepressible druid.

“No. Unless he got void-zombied and we just didn’t recognize his busted face.”

DM  
“I’m thinking that’s exactly what happened,” Mase sighs.

“Then I think we’re done here,” says Kwava.

Ruran  
“I guess so, but...did you want any help looking for your renegades while we’re here?”

Racaille  
Racaille looks from the silent zombie to Ruran. He doesn’t look at Kwava. Because the inescapable truth is, they might not be here without that gods-damned necromancer and their mindless horde.

“Yeah, sure.”

DM  
Mase pumps his paw-fist into the air.

“Then let’s move out!”

\--/--

DM  
A chill descends on Medomai, Merimna, and Serem as they walk the dark, dripping western tunnel. The light of Serem’s torch nearly flickers out.

Merimna  
Merimna stops Serem with a hand on his shoulder. Something’s not right. Her eyes scan the darkness.

DM: @Merimna  
All is well, as far as Merimna can see.

Serem  
Serem adds his eyes to the effort.

DM: @Merimna  
Serem sees even less, so things are apparently even better than expected.

Medomai  
Medomai takes a look.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai just fucking dons a pair of rose-colored blinders. This tunnel’s a cake-walk ending in a pot of gold.

Merimna  
“Nevermind,” apparently.

Merimna pats Serem’s shoulder. He’s free to step further into this clearly innocuous tunnel.

Serem  
“Righty-o,” says Serem, his mouth twisting into half a wry smile.

He takes that next step and/or steps without a care in Gozreh’s natural world.

DM  
A bloodcurdling shriek reigns down from above. A bat-winged demon of pure, seething shadow swoops at Serem baring claws and needle-sharp teeth.

Merimna  
Ah, there it is, the fuckening. That incorporeal shadow bit’s gonna be a problem. Merimna can only hope Serem brought his magic claws to work today.

She fixes the demon with her dread stare and sets a finger against her temple. She flicks the finger off her skin with a soft, magic, “Poof.”

DM: @Merimna  
A dazing spell normally wouldn’t affect a demon of this caliber, but Merimna’s dread stare is living up to its name. The demon freezes, including their wings. They crash to the floor of the cavern.

Serem  
“Nice assist,” Serem growls, shifting into bull-tiger form.

He slashes into the shadow demon with today’s magic claws.

DM  
Serem shreds the demon to shadow ribbons. They would roar in pain, but they’re currently frozen.

Medomai  
Medomai just shrugs.

“I’ve got nothing,” he smiles. “You two are doing great.”

Merimna  
Fuck. This spell isn’t going to--Merimna snaps her fingers. She’d just learned quite the trick.

“Serem, you just stand right there.”

She turns her dread stare back on the demon. Merimna raises one palm. She shoves it toward the demon.

DM: @Merimna  
A psychic wave surges out from Merimna’s palm. It shoves the frozen demon past Serem, affording him an opportunity attack.

Serem  
Serem claws at the demon as they go sliding by.

DM  
That’ll do it. Serem rends the last of the demon’s shadows into dissipating ribbons. They dissolve into the darkness of the cave leaving no trace of their would-be attacker.

Medomai  
“Go team,” Medomai says cheerily.

Merimna  
That could’ve gone disastrously if the daze had worn out, but as it stands, yeah. Merimna gives Serem’s muscled shoulder a light punch.

“Nice clawing, bull-tiger boy.”

Serem  
“Anytime.”

Serem shifts back and sweeps his torch up off the floor. Now that the guard dog demon’s dead, time to see what’s really at the end of this tunnel.

DM  
The echoes of waves crashing against the cliffs grows louder as the western team follows the tunnel. A natural fissure in the wall offers a glimpse of the chamber within. A lion-like beast’s body, partially dissected, is splayed on a table and surrounded by a variety of tools and half-filled bottles.

Merimna  
“That’s an akata, isn’t it?”

Too bad Ruran isn’t here. This looks like the kind of life-desecration that would be straight up that necromancer’s ally.

Serem  
“It was.”

Merimna: @Serem  
“Wait, before you step into that room--”

DM  
Nope, too late. Flames roar out through the fissure at Serem.

But, of course, they don’t hit him because nothing can hit that shifty-ass elf.

The attack reveals a shaven-headed drow on the other end of the flaming wand. He holds a spear in his other hand. A giant, albino gecko snaps its razor-sharp teeth by his side.

Merimna  
Merimna ignores the gecko for now and fires at the drow.

DM: @Merimna  
The drow gurgles blood in shock as both arrows pierce through the bark-ified skin of his chest.

Serem  
The gecko’s the real surprise here. Serem turns his focus onto its pigment-lacking eyes.

“Hey there. Nice gecko.”

DM  
No, not nice gecko. It snaps at Serem. And misses, of course.

The drow rasps something at the gecko and flees through the chamber and a narrow gap in the back wall. The gecko scurries after him.

Medomai  
That’s a bit of a long shot, but Medomai’s shooting range is longer. He fires.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai’s bolt punches through the back of the drow’s ribcage, its tip just piercing out the front. The drow drops dead to the floor of the cavern. The gecko continues scurrying. It disappears around a bend.

Merimna  
“That gecko’s going to alert the rest of the camp, isn’t it?”

Serem  
“Mmm, yep.”

DM  
Sure enough, two drow guards with crossbows and rapiers come running in for the attack. One charges at Serem, rapier drawn. The other stays back, firing their hand crossbow at him.

Both are fucking stymied by Serem’s un-fucking-naturally fast reflexes.

Medomai  
Medomai fires at the crossbow elf.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai’s bolt knocks the piss and blood out of the drow, doing all but sending them to an early grave.

Merimna  
“Why do they think they can play with us?” Merimna mutters, firing off two arrows at the wounded elf.

DM: @Merimna  
They aren’t thinking now that Merimna’s arrows stab the life out of them.

Serem  
Serem whacks at the remaining elf with his quarterstaff.

DM  
Serem very nearly kills the drow. On their last legs, the drow’s solid white eyes widen in realization of the death before them. They drop their rapier, running back from whence they came.

Medomai  
“How about...no.”

Medomai snaps a finger at the drow.

DM: @Medomai  
But Medomai’s spell seems to bounce right off some kind of spell resisting aura on the drow.

Merimna  
“Don’t sweat it. I’m sure we’ll be seeing them again.”

For the moment, it’s enough for Merimna to crouch down by the body of the flame-wielding drow for looting.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna rustles up the drow’s wand of produce flame, masterwork leather armor, an enchanted spear, a masterwork dagger, two silver bracelets and a silver ring.

Merimna: @DM  
Merimna keeps the wand and switches her dagger for the masterwork one. The spear, she tosses sidewise to Serem.

“For throwing, I presume.”

Serem  
“Yeah, will be sure to chuck that at the next mid-to-close-range enemy we come across, thanks.”

Medomai  
Medomai crouches down by the arrow-and-bolt-riddled drow guard to do some corpse-looting himself.

DM: @Medomai  
This guard’s carrying the same equipment as the first two they’d encountered. If not for the clear difference in facial features, these guards could be clones.

Merimna  
“I suppose it’s time to proceed to what most certainly is an ambush.”

Serem  
“Yep. Oh hey, what was that you were saying earlier?”

Merimna: @Serem  
“Ah, I was going to offer you the protection of the mental trick I totally remembered to give Meda and myself this morning, but your reflexes have thus far defied reasonable chance, so I doubt you need it.”

Serem: @Merimna  
“Well, it’s the thought that counts anyway.”

Medomai  
“Indeed. Shall we?”

Medomai steps back into line with Merimna behind Serem.

DM  
The tunnels of the east and west teams feed into opposite sides of an eighty-foot sea cave supported on natural pillars of rock, resulting in an unintentional pincer movement. 

Water fills the lower portion of the cavern, sloshing and surging with the tide. A five-foot-wide rocky beach lines the face of the pool. At the north end of the chamber, a thin cascade of water plummets from a crack in the ceiling into the pool. To the south, several wooden platforms attach to the rock pillars, precariously.

A ladder rises ten feet to the first platform where the wounded guard chugs healing potions. On a larger platform is twenty feet above the water, two drow guards stand with crossbows at the ready. They immediately notice the torches carried by Serem and Racaille from opposite ends of the cavern.

Roll initiative.


	26. Log 26

Serem  
“Hey, no healing for you!”

Serem chucks the spear at the guard on the first platform.

DM: @Serem  
It sails right into the middle of the pool. Out from which leaps a huge, enraged orca with a scratch on its head. It snaps at Serem with a mouth capable of swallowing a humanoid whole.

Except Serem is both too far from the first platform and from the pool. Those jaws chomp nothing but air.

Merimna  
Serem may’ve missed but he had the right idea. Merimna ignores the pop-up orca and fires at the elixir-chugging guard.

Medomai  
“Just die already,” says Medomai, blatantly ignoring the orca as well while he fires his crossbow after Mina.

DM: @Merimna and Medomai  
An arrow and a bolt pierce the guard in either shoulder, but they steadfastly refuse to die.

Racaille  
“Guys,” Racaille shouts across the cavern, “that’s a motherfucking orca between us and the--”

Ohhh, right. The murder-twins are ranged killers. Of course they don’t care.

Racaille draws his blades and goes down to the pool.

Ruran  
“To the orca!”

Ruran claps their hands together. The bones of the akatas’ and zombie’s joints grow thick and sharp, protruding through the skin at the knuckles, elbows, shoulders, spine, and knees.

Their bone-strengthened horde descends on the orca with Racaille, providing flanking.

DM  
Despite the sheer mass of the mob whaling on the orca, only Racaille’s short sword and a single, whacking tentacle make a dent. Barely.

Kwava fires at the first guard as well, but the one arrow that make it also fails to kill the drow.

Mase casts barkskin on himself, getting ready to rumble.

The re-wounded guard fires at Medomai while the two on the platform above fire at Merimna. As un-fucking-luck would have it, their bolts, much like Serem’s spear, take a dive into the pool. They glance harmlessly off the tough orca hide.

Serem  
Bad news sea-bears for everyone who’d attacked that orca--there’s no way Serem’s gonna be able to convince it to stand/float down now. He sighs and shifts, bringing out the claws.

“Sorry, blub.”

DM  
Serem’s rips a massive orca steak right out of the whale’s black and white hide. 

The orca roars and bites back. It’s dagger-length teeth nearly take Serem’s entire arm off.

Merimna  
Perhaps Serem could actually have used that mental trick of hers. Too late now.

“Meda, finish the wounded guard. I want fresh meat.”

She fires into the second platform.

Medomai  
“On it.”

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai’s as good as his word, dropping the guard dead into the pool with the rest of the projectiles.

Racaille  
Archfiend’s balls, that orca attack looked bad. Racaille slashes at the beast and dances five feet back in the sand.

Ruran  
That orca’s a beast, but maybe it didn’t have to be. Ruran keeps the horde on attack and points their poppet at the whale.

“Show me your soft side.”

DM  
Ethereal strings fly out from the poppet to wrap around the whale. The orca roars, the sound weakening as its strength drains red through the strings of Ruran’s curse.

Racaille cuts deep into the wounded, weakened whale, but the horde can assist with only a single tentacle strike.

Kwava fires at Merimna’s new target, but only one arrow strikes true and doesn’t even kill them at that.

Mase charges into the fray and lends his scimitar to the whale-killing cause. He slashes deep through the creature’s steak-shaped wound. The orca’s bellow shakes the cavern.

Both of the drow guards fire at Merimna. A single bolt grazes Merimna’s cheek and ear.

Serem  
Damn, this is one tough orca. There’s nothing to do but keep on hacking.

DM  
Seems Serem’s luck is slacking because only one of those hacking claws scores.

The enraged orca chomps Serem’s striking arm, but Ruran’s curse has dulled its bite. Serem barely feels the dagger-like teeth raking down his arm--relatively.

Merimna  
“I literally hate you,” Merimna mutters under her breath as she fires at that guard who won’t die.

Medomai  
What Mina just said. Medomai fires at the guard as well.

DM: @Merimna and Medomai  
Merimna better get ready for a new level of hate because both her arrows sail harmlessly into the whale pool.

A short lived level--Medomai’s bolt plunks solidly through the drow’s chest. The guard gurgles and falls off the platform, following Merimna’s arrows into the pool.

Racaille  
Orca, no, you’re going down. Racaille keeps up the slash attacks.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille slashes, once, twice. It’s the precision that does in the whale. With a shuddering below, the violent giant slips down into the churning pool of misfired projectiles.

Ruran  
“Wow, nice job, Racaille.”

Ruran points their horde at the platforms.

“Up and at ‘em, zombies!”

DM  
The horde obeys. They surge up the ladders to mob the last guard standing. The “normal” zombie stabs the guard right through the chest and out the back. An akata zombie pounces for the killing blow.

In a language only Ruran understands, the drow cries, “I’ve failed you, my--”

The akata rips out their throat.

But their cry has not gone unheard. Those with darkvision see a flicker of movement from a hitherto still platform fifty feet over the pool. 

A final drow steps off the platform, floating down. Her long, silvery-white ponytail flares like a cloak behind her. She lands lightly on the surface of the pool and aims a vicious smirk at Racaille. She swings a heavier, even more vicious flail at his head.

And she misses because of course she fucking misses--blame the build-up, too much dramatic build-up.

Kwava fires at the new drow, landing his shot, critically into her shoulder. Mase runs in with a scimitar attack, but is nowhere near so lucky, the blade clanging off her heavy steel shield.

“Too slow, you flea-bitten cur,” she snarks in that same foreign tongue.

Serem  
Serem shrugs off his flesh-wounds and rakes into the new drow.

Merimna  
Merimna simply turns her arrows onto the new drow.

Medomai  
Medomai does the same but with his crossbow.

Racaille  
Racaille dances in from the flanking side.

DM: @Serem, Merimna, Medomai, and Racaille  
The barrage falls upon the drow but nearly every attack bounces harmlessly off her well-wielded shield or banded armor. Only Serem’s claw gets through, singular, raking a deep slash through her arm.

Ruran  
Despite the heat of the battle, Ruran...just wants to stand down and get some information out of this woman speaking their mother’s tongue. ‘What’s your name’ might be a good start.

Instead, they swallow their questions and set the undead horde on her.

DM  
The akatas’ bites and tentacle attacks are useless against the drow’s heavy armor, but the zombie’s cold iron attack strikes true.

“Step off!” the drow roars, unintelligibly to the others.

Her voice rings with magic. Like a wave, it forces the undead back. They flee right out of the cavern.

Kwava fires, sorely tempted to hit Ruran’s undead from the way his arrows sail wafflingly and harmlessly between the two separating parties.

Mase tries his scimitar again, but all he’s providing is flanking at this point.

Serem  
The undead really aren’t the problem here. Both of those elves have not got their priorities sorted--their loss.

Serem slashes at the drow.

DM: @Serem  
Serem is actually right about that. He tears through a gap in the drow’s guard, shredding her throat. She falls into the pool with the rest of the dead and lost.

Merimna  
The drow are all exterminated and Ruran’s lost their undead--better than expected. Merimna claps her hands together.

“Excellent work everyone.”

Then goes off to check the lowest platform for loot.

Medomai  
“Looking a bit rough there, Serem. Care for some healing?”

Serem: @Medomai  
“Thanks, you’re an angel,” says Serem, shifting back to his usual elfin self.

Racaille  
Racaille rolls his eyes and jogs past the two to the ladders. He checks the second platform.

Ruran  
Ruran sinks to a crouch by the pool’s edge, their boots crunching in the sand. Their eyes travel to the dark water that’s swallowed up all the drow and an orca for good measure. The bodies were still in their aura, still within reach, but not for long.

DM  
Kwava steps staunchly between Ruran and the pool of churning death.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Behind his back, Mase gives Ruran a toothy grin and shrug. He scampers up the ladders to help with the loot retrieval.

Altogether, you uncover two block and tackles, ten square yards of canvas, fifty feet of chain, five crowbars, three fishing nets, six grappling hooks, four hammers, six hooded lanterns, a  
set of masterwork shipwright’s tools, a set of masterwork  
carpenter’s tools, a set of masterwork tailor’s tools, a  
merchant’s scale, seven miner’s picks, fourteen pitons, two ten-  
foot poles, a portable ram, two hundred feet of silk rope, seventeen empty sacks, and two sledges. 

Mixed in with all the camp and building gear is a crate containing four bottles of 4663-vintage wine from the Terverius Wineries of southern Cheliax.

A small, unlocked box on the central platform contains two green potions, three blue potions, five red potions, and one purple potion. 

Racaille: @DM  
Racaille’s gonna use that wand of identifying here.

DM  
Yeah, good call. The green are potions of lesser restoration, the blue are potions of remove paralysis, the red are potions of cure moderate wounds, and the purple is a potion of neutralize poison.

A trunk from the highest platform contains...fifty-three pounds of noqual harvested from the meteorite. As well as two sets of noble outfits sized for an elven woman and a set of ostentatious  
costume jewelry. There’s a silver scroll-tube that contains several maps—-Devil’s Elbow (before and after the meteorite strike), Riddleport, Celwynvian, western Varisia, and all of  
Varisia. 

Kwava immediately swipes up the map of Celwynvian, a forest near Riddleport.

Along the left side of the chest are three books wrapped in silk and leather. A well-thumbed book called Thoughts on Varisian  
Customs, is written in Common. The others are written in the drow’s foreign language.

Ruran: @DM  
With Kwava shutting down all hope of a dead-to-necromancer conversation, Ruran has crowded around with the others to inspect the loot.

“Mase, can I take a look at those?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Of course.”

The first book he passes over is Tsalkaean’s Bestiary, a guide to aberrations and oozes in the darkest, deepest caves.

The second is a small, compact journal belonging to one Shindiira Misraria. It begins with her excited account at being accepted into one House Azrinae. But quickly devolves into a boredom-combatting anthology of sex fantasies concerning someone named Nolveniss in Celwynvian.

Mercifully, the back half of the journal has only been used for scientific data entry on the meteorological effects that preceded the falling star, the impact itself, and developments--now incomplete. An event or object called an “Armageddon Echo” is mentioned several times.

Serem  
“So what’s it say?”

Ruran  
Ruran holds the journal out on a shaking hand to Kwava.

“The EBI’s gonna want the last half of that. The renegades knew about the starfall. They know something else is coming.”

Their voice shakes as well, though it has nothing to do with the discoveries of the second half. 

House Azrinae--their mother was an Azrinae. Unless she’d been disowned or something. The house sounded noble, which Ruran had no experience with aside from the odd morgue client.

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava takes the journal. His cold violet eyes meet Ruran’s, frowning.

“As much as I hate to say it, I have to ask that you come with us to deliver the journal. Your translation may be better than ours.”

Racaille  
Racaille quirks his brow.

“Us?”

DM: @Racaille  
“Unless you’re opposed to getting paid,” says Kwava, dry enough to wick every last drop of moisture out of this cave.

Racaille: @DM  
Racaille unquirks his brow into a disgruntled but resigned frown.

Medomai  
Medomai nods noncommittally at occasional intervals in the conversation as he gingerly places each potion one-by-one into his pack.

Merimna  
Unlike her brother, Merimna steps right up and into the conversation.

“Us too,” she says, crossing her arms resolutely. “I saw you take that map. This is bigger than all of us, isn’t it? Bigger than the EBI had possibly anticipated, sending in a single agent who had to outsource his muscle. The bare-faced truth of it is, this is going to affect all of us, and we’re stronger together. Let’s take this on. As a team.”

With herself as leader, of course.

DM  
Kwava purses his frown. Slowly, he nods.

“Fine,” he sighs. “When we get back to the mainland, you can all come with me. But Ruran…”

Ruran: @DM  
Kwava doesn’t have to say it. Kwava doesn’t say it. 

Ruran nods, chewing the inside of their cheek. The drow bodies sink through the last reach of their aura.

DM  
Mase breaks the silence, clapping his paws together.

“Well, if we’re all waiting on the Flying Cloud to get back to the mainland, would this fab new team mind helping me search the rest of this island for ol’ Avery Syleg?”

Merimna: @DM  
“I’ve got some bad news, Mase. Syleg’s dead and Clegg took over his camp.”

DM: @Merimna  
“It’s a dead-or-alive kinda deal.”

Serem  
“Then yeah, sure.”

Ruran  
Ruran’s gaze flicks to Kwava then back at the others.

“Not the zombie kind of dead-or-alive.”

Racaille  
“Alright. We might as well try.”

Medomai  
Medomai stands and shoulders his ever-so-slightly clinking pack.

“Here here!”

Merimna  
Mase’s errand would doubtlessly prove a pointless errand, a sidequest if you will. But this team is currently held together with the fair-weather gluestick of fate. They couldn’t afford to break rank this early in its formation.

Merimna smiles, thinly.

“Absolutely.”


	27. Log 27

DM  
The newly officiated team receives its pay at the end of the day when Clegg and the prospectors return to camp. This gives the teammates plenty of time to rest, heal, and reflect on their recent...experiences--hint hint, nudge nudge. Clegg is so pleased with the noqual haul that he permits Akron to keep you all tented and fed for as long as you stay at camp.

After the nearly-fatal orca attack, Mase is more than willing to wait until tomorrow to start up the search. And boy does he start with gusto, clanging a ladle against an iron skillet at the crack of dawn.

“Up and at ‘em, kiddos!”

Serem  
The blanket falls off Serem’s bare chest as he sits up. He shakes his head with a wry grin. “Kiddo”, sure, he’ll take it.

Ruran  
Ruran stays under their blanket with their poppet in hand. Their skin is back to its liquid ink norm. Half the people on this new team have seen them as they really are, but they can’t bring themself to drop the blanket until they’ve prepped their spells and glamoured up.

Racaille  
“Someone’s getting backstabbed,” Racaille grumbles as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. 

It’s way too early to be setting metal to metal. Giant-ears Mase should’ve been the first to realize it.

Medomai  
Medomai lies facedown on his pillow. Why had he let Mina talk him into this whole team thing again? Oh, that’s right. He’d just passively gone along with it as he did with all of her schemes. It was easier on his brain, sure, but now he’s back up at the crack of dawn.

Merimna  
Merimna grimaces, eyes closed, at the clangor, but this was her team. She has to set a good example for her subordinates.

Merimna sighs and pushes up onto her elbows. She gives the doubtlessly awoken Akron a quick peck before rolling out of the cot. She throws on her clothes, armor, gear and steps out ready to throw down. Also pass out some extra protection.

“Serem, Racaille, come here if you want a shadow clone.”

She doesn’t have to call Meda.

Serem  
Serem shrugs on his clothes and walks out to meet Merimna by the ashen circle of last night’s bonfire.

“Anything to help keep the orcas off,” he grins.

Ruran  
Ruran is probably still stuck communing with their poppet under the blanket while all this is going on.

Racaille  
Racaille plods out behind Serem. He combs the tangles from his hair with his fingers.

“If we face another orca, I will personally just run the fuck away and let it beach itself or bust. But yeah, I’ll take protection, thanks.”

Medomai  
Medomai sits up on his cot, mirror in one hand and makeup kit in the other. He doesn’t bother looking into his own eyes. If he wanted to see Mina, he could just pop his head out of the tent.

Merimna  
Merimna sets a fingertip against Serem’s head first, then Racaille’s. She chats as she sets the tricks.

“According to Akron, this used to be Syleg’s camp.”

Serem  
“Then he would’ve left tracks.”

Especially if he’d turned into one of those shambling tongue zombies. Serem goes off to search for said track as soon as Merimna’s finished with him.

DM: @Serem  
Serem does indeed find tracks of the previous campers. They lead off into the dense, misty mountain forest at the heart of the island.

Ruran  
Ruran, fully glamoured and spell-prepped, pulls the blanket off themself. They get up and stretch out their cramped body before leaving the tent.

Medomai: @Ruran  
Medomai, one side of his face painted and one side unadorned, gives Ruran the tiniest, preoccupied nod.

“Morning. I hope you’ve brought your non-necromancing game today.”

Ruran: @Medomai  
Ruran looks away from Medomai’s unfinished face, tapping their two pointer fingers together under their chest.

“Yes.”

And no. Technically, they hadn’t prepped any undead-creating spells. The thing is, black magic runs in their veins--that particular ability is always at their fingertips.

“I’ll just let you finish there--see you outside!” 

They run out as fast as could be mistaken for not-running.

Racaille  
Racaille looks around Serem at the tracks in front of the elf. Huh. That looks indistinguishable from every other patch of forest at the edge of camp.

If he had to bet, Kwava could pick up on those tracks he can’t. Those nature-y elves and their eyes.

DM: @Racaille  
Kwava looks over at Racaille as though on cue, his elfin eyes narrowed to violet slits. He appears to have rolled out of bed perfectly starched and pressed.

Medomai  
Medomai, last to leave the tent, spares Kwava an envious pout on his way to Mina.

“Sleep well?” he murmurs.

Merimna  
“Like a dream,” she grins, brushing Meda’s bangs to either side to make a place for her fingertip.

“You?”

Medomai: @Merimna  
“It’s too early to be this jelly. Wait, let me rephrase that: it’s too early,” Medomai chuckles.

DM  
“Are you joking there, matey?” asks Mase, tossing aside his ladle and skillet. “Those tracks are getting colder by the second. Serem, lead us on!”

Serem: @DM  
“You got it, Mase.”

Serem takes his team into the forest on the trail of the likely undead Syleg.

DM  
It’s slow going for the city-slickers through all the thick underbrush. The shade of the trees and the chill of the on-and-off drizzle further slow the passage of time to one interminable, muddy slog. One eternity later, the trees pull back into a small clearing doubling as a muddy gorge. 

Leaves rustle and explode from the trees opposite the team. Three drakes with shimmering emerald scales and long, spiked tails, burst up on leathery wings. Their ravenous roars shake the raindrops from the surrounding trees.

Racaille  
Fucking fuckity fuck. Racaille’s only ranged weapon, the wand of magic missiles, would have about the same effect here as throwing a dart. A dart that never missed, but still.

“FUCK,” he groans, grabbing it anyway and flinging out a volley.

DM: @Racaille  
The volley does indeed sail and prick the first drake exactly like a magical, white dart.

Ruran  
“I’m not running away,” Ruran swears.

Instead, they hold their poppet in both hands, casting a hex of flight on themself. They fly up into the cover of the trees, hopefully. The drakes did pop out of trees themselves.

DM  
Mase casts barkskin on himself. Kwava fires off three arrows at the questionably wounded drake without batting an eye. All thunk into the drake’s underbelly but not very deep.

The truly wounded drake roars and spits a whirling green ball that unfurls into an acidic cloud at those on the ground.

Racaille manages to spring clear of the cloud. Medomai catches half of it. Merimna and Serem, however, gulp down a full lungful of the acidic air, which persists as a vison-obscuring cloud.

The other two drakes, apparently immune to their own acid, swoop down into the cloud. One crunches Kwava’s shoulder through his armor and slams its spiked tail into his chest.

The last targets Racaille who got away with tooth and tail. It bites into his bicep, but its tail swings just over his skull.

Just like that, the two drakes swoop back up into the air with a surge of winged strength.

Merimna  
Bastards. Merimna races out from the acid cloud. She zeroes her dread stare in on the wounded drake and fires two arrows as soon as she’s in the clear.

DM: @Merimna  
Only one arrow hits the drake, but her psychic stare drives it deep. The drake roars in pain.

Medomai  
Medomai staggers back out from the cloud as well. He points his crossbow at the bloodied drake.

“Later, gator.”

DM: @Medomai  
Later gator, indeed. Medomai’s bolt punches through the drake’s eye into its skull. All ten feet and a thousand pounds worth of drake crashes into the muddy gorge with a massive splatter of sticky, wet brown.

Serem  
Serem shifts into bull-tiger form. He can’t reach the drakes, but he knows their technique--spray and sweep. He steps out from the cloud beside Medomai, claws at the ready.

Racaille  
Racaille looks at his wand. He sigh-groans in exasperation and looses another magic dart at a drake.

DM: @Racaille  
Magic missile doesn’t miss. Ill. Though the drake barely snorts in acknowledgment.

Ruran  
Ruran points their poppet at the dart-poked drake. They stab a thin, metal pin through the poppet’s back.

“A curse upon your strength.”

DM  
The drake doesn’t have the will to resist Ruran’s fell curse. An ethereal hole opens over its spine. It screeches in panic as raw strength shrivels from its muscles and out into the necromantic void.

Mase shudders and steps out from the cloud beside Racaille. He readies his scimitar for any swooping perps. Kwava steps out firing. All three arrows plunge into the underbelly of the cursed drake.

The cursed drake, however, stays airborne. It expels a second whirling green ball at Kwava, Racaille, and Mase’s grouping.

Once again, Racaille springs perfectly clear. Kwava and Mase, however, get hit right in the inhale. They cough and sputter up blood.

The uncursed drake swoops down on Medomai, the drake-killer. Its teeth rake and spikes slam, but both bounce off the half-elf’s enchanted armor.

Serem, meanwhile, gets in his attack. And nearly takes the drake’s gods-damned head off with his flurry of claws. 

The drake surges back up, shrieking and even more grievously wounded than its accursed partner.

Merimna  
Merimna raises her brows at Serem’s solidly muscled, shifted back. Interesting.

But quickly aims her bow and dread gaze at the drake the currently horned elf nearly decapitated.

DM: @Merimna  
Both arrows hit. Less than a second later, Merimna’s stare drives them even deeper. 

Blood sprays halo-like from the drake’s multi-slit neck. It drops into the muddy gorge with a second splattering wave of muck.

Medomai  
Medomai shakes the mud from his eyes. Disgusting. He fires at the last accursed drake.

DM: @Medomai  
The shake didn’t fully clear Medomai’s line of sight. Both bolts fly wide into brown-green blurs that turn out to be trees.

Serem  
Serem stays by the drake-killing twins, readying another counter-strike.

Racaille  
So it’s come back to this. Racaille bows his head and flings his magical dart.

Ruran  
Ruran’s already cursed the drake. That seems like enough black magic on this particular living being for today. They tuck their poppet into their lab coat pocket and cling to the tree branches with both hands.

DM  
Mase stays by Racaille, scimitar readied just in case. Kwava fires off three more arrows at the final drake. They sink one after the other into the drake, each deeper than the last. 

The drake comes tumbling down with a final, team-spraying splatter of mud. Except for Ruran, whose tree has been taking the brunt of the mud waves.

Merimna  
“Thank gods that’s over.”

The mud, that is. Merimna immediately prestidigitates herself clean by the treeline.

“Come line up if you want to take the mud off.”

Medomai  
Medomai is first in line. He IS wearing silk.

He calls over his shoulder at Kwava while he stands still for Mina, “Do you need some healing after taking all that acid?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Yes,” Kwava answers dryly from his place in the cleaning queue.

Serem  
“Thanks for the dry clean.”

Serem steps out of line as soon as Merimna finishes with him and gets back onto the muddying trail of the zombies.

DM: @Serem  
The zombies had left obvious marks of their passage, but the recent, mud-spraying fight is making them difficult for even wilderness-master Serem to find.

Racaille  
Racaille’ll be damned if he’s spending any longer than necessary out in the bush. He thanks Merimna and goes off to help Serem as best as he can.

“Kwava, you better get your elf eyes over here, too.”

DM: @Racaille  
Mud, mud, everywhere, but nary a drop to whatever Racaille plans to do with that. He can barely see a foot through the un-muddied underbrush.

Kwava goes to help but, unfortunately, fares almost as badly as Racaille.

“Our eyes aren’t magic, you know. We can’t even see in the dark.”

And it will, actually, be dark in four hours. That’s how long it’s been taking you to slog through all this muck and now search for tracks.

Ruran  
Ruran looks up at the overcast sky through the clearing. With half the team unable to see in the dark, they may not be able to go much farther forward or even get back to the camp at this rate. The least they can do is find where the tracks pick up before the darkness hits. Ruran lends their darkvision to the effort.

DM: @Ruran  
It’s the thought that counts and only the thought. That’s another fail from Ruran.

Mase pitches in right beside them, though. His whiskered nose twitches and he grins, toothily.

“Gotcha.”

Mase points out the tracks leading out from the clearing and ever deeper into the forested mountain ridge.

Merimna  
Merimna shakes out her wrists after all that magical pointing and joins the others by the new heading.

“I vote we go just far enough to take us to solid ground and make camp for the night.”

Medomai  
Medomai nods thoughtfully.

“Seconded, but I don’t believe any of us brought any rations outside of water.”

Serem  
Serem turns back, looking past the team at the three fallen drakes.

“How do you feel about lizard?”


	28. Log 28

DM  
Lucky for all, there are no more forest drake attacks between Serem butchering one to three of their brethren and setting up camp on solid mountain rock above the muddy gorge. The night is especially cold and biting at this altitude, but the clouds have peeled back enough to spot a luminous moon and crystal clear stars between their poofy wisps.

Serem  
Serem, covered head to foot in forest drake blood, drops to a seat on a log. He holds his red-stained hands out to the crackling campfire.

“So...did any of those cuts get cooked?”

Racaille  
Racaille holds a flat stone laden with raw steaks on sticks. Then pulls it back out of reach.

“You deserve it, sure, but you should really get cleaned up first. Mina?”

Merimna  
Merimna’s eyes automatically narrow, but Serem is truly both the most deserving and most in need of a cleaning here. She points at him from the log opposite his at the fire.

“Smile pretty.”

Serem: @Merimna  
Serem obliges as prettily as he can, if also wryly.

Ruran  
Ruran smiles themself behind the drake hock they’re chewing in both hands. They stay quiet apart from the almost violent tearing of meat off the bone.

Medomai  
Medomai rolls his eyes though he can’t deny that Serem is, in fact, at least as pretty as Kwava. Moreso, perhaps, on account of his altogether more pleasant and compliant attitude.

DM  
Like Ruran, Kwava says nothing. Instead, he does his best to eat while Mase pipes a tune on a drake-bone flute. But a muscle in his jaw flexes out of sync with his chewing.

Serem  
“Thanks, Mina.”

Serem reaches for a steak on a stick as soon as she’s finished. He holds it out over the fire, turning it when necessary.

Racaille  
Racaille’s already finished eating, but he stays beside Serem at the fire. It’s a beautiful night--cold and bracing at his back, full and warm at his front. It’s even better with friends.

Merimna  
Merimna stands and dusts off her breeches. She’s had quite enough of Mase’s pied piping herself.

“Alright, I’m going to bed. Night, all.”

Ruran  
“Goodnight,” says Ruran around their latest mouthful.

This fresh drake meat is really something else.

Medomai  
Medomai rises hips first, bent double. He lets his arms hang loose as he straightens up into a full stretch.

“Ahhh, yeah, I’m off to bed, too. G’night.”

DM  
Kwava and Mase both nod at the siblings. Mase continues piping away.

Serem  
Serem heads to his bedroll after finishing up his steak stick. The rest of the cuts would, hopefully, be safe where they’d buried them in the ashes.

Racaille  
Racaille goes to bed after Serem heads off. He nods at Kwava, Mase, and Ruran. They’re more acquaintances than friends.

Ruran  
“I can take the first watch.”

DM  
“Not alone,” Kwava finally speaks.

Mase lowers his flute just long enough to pipe up, “I’ll watch with them.”

“I meant I’d do it.”

Ruran  
Ruran shrugs. All three of them could watch. The team might even be safer that way.

DM  
All three do end up taking that first watch together. Toward the end of their four hour shift, both Ruran and Kwava hear a rustling over Mase’s incessant, high-pitched, off-key piping. Kwava waves a hand at Mase for him to cut it out.

Ruran  
Ruran may not be able to see much through the brush, but they can tell who’s alive, dead, and in-between in their bone-thralling aura. They check for undead in particular in the direction of the rustling.

DM  
Ruran does indeed detect the undead. Eighteen of them.

Ruran  
“Mase,” Ruran breathes without turning or moving at all, “I think we found Syleg’s camp.”

DM  
Before Mase can speak, Kwava stops him with a sharp, silent palm.

“Mase, wake the others,” says the elf, drawing his longbow.

Mase nods and scurries off silently. Kwava reaches back for three arrows.

“Ruran, how m--”

The next rustling answers his unfinished question as all eighteen void zombies shamble out from the treeline, larval tongues sloshing from their burst jaws.

Racaille  
Racaille wakes at the first peep out of Mase. He draws his short sword and dagger from under his bedroll and dashes into the light of the watch.

“Oh Hells, no,” he mutters, jogging up short at the shadows flickering over the tongue-sloshing zombies.

But he keeps jogging in place, shrugging it off. He charges in with a roar.

DM: @Racaille  
Between Racaille’s short sword and dagger, a zombie’s torso flies off its legs.

Ruran  
Ruran throws their poppet up at the undead horde. Time to divide and conquer.

DM  
Ethereal strings of darkest magic splay out from Ruran’s poppet. They wrap around five of the void zombies. Though their tongues lash angrily, none have the will to resist joining the horde of Ruran’s own.

They turn on their fellow zombies. They tear through three of the remaining twelve. The last of Ruran’s horde slaps their tongue against one of the final nine, draining their zombified strength.

The nine fall upon Racaille and the five turned zombies making up the frontline. Five zombies kill four of Ruran’s. The other four batter Racaille to a bloody pulp with their gnarled fists, leaving him with the barest thread of life remaining.

Serem  
“Racaille!”

Serem jumps into the fray. His quarterstaff swings to the left and the right.

DM: @Serem  
The double, sweeping strikes cave in the skulls of the zombies on the corresponding sides. Seven remain.

Merimna  
Merimna winces at the bloody mash left of Racaille but at least he’s still alive. Barely.

She fires off two arrows into the horde.

DM: @Merimna  
Merimna’s more shaken by the sight than she’d care to believe and misses both shots.

Medomai  
“Easy there,” says Medomai, flicking his healing wand at Racaille.

DM  
Medomai takes the brunt of the pain off Racaille, but the Chelaxian’s still well in danger of losing his literal head.

Mase runs to Racaille’s side, slashing with his scimitar. Much like Merimna, however, he’s too preturbed to land a hit.

Kwava fires three arrows into the horde. One zombie drops dead-for-real. Another of the final six takes a vicious puncture through the ear.

Racaille  
Racaille clenches his teeth to hold in whatever blood he can. His eyes flick to Ruran. If they can push these undead around, now is the fucking-est time to do it.

He lays into the wounded zombie with the remains of his strength.

DM: @Racaille  
In Racaille’s desperation, his adrenaline spikes. He lops the arrow-punctured head right off the zombie.

Ruran  
Ruran gives Racaille a grim but reassuring grim. Unsentient dead had no saving grace against their necromantic grasp. They turn their poppet onto the four of the five not among their horde.

DM  
Sure enough the zombies fall into Ruran’s control under the strings of their poppet. The five mindlessly attack their one remaining enemy brethren. It never stood a chance.

Ruran’s zombies fall into their unnatural stillness as soon as the pieces of the last zombie roll down the mountainside. Mase hops up with his muzzle in hand and inspects the ruined faces of each in the light of the watch fire.

“A-hah! Gotcha!”

His scimitar gleams red. Mase lops the head off the middle zombie. It rolls down the mountainside and into the trees with the rest of the zombie parts.

“Syleg! Come back!”

Mase runs off after the rolling head and wheeling tongue.

Serem  
“Mase! It’s not safe to go alone!”

Serem grabs a branch from the fire and runs into the woods after the druid.

Merimna  
Merimna lowers her longbow but doesn’t tuck it away.

“Ruran, you didn’t plan on keeping these zombies, did you?”

Ruran: @Merimna  
Ruran pries their eyes off Mase and Serem’s tail.

“No…”

Medomai  
“Best get to killing then,” says Medomai, turning his wand onto Racaille.

He heals the rest of the Chelaxian’s damage with two more flicks.

Racaille: @Medomai  
“Thanks, Meda.”

DM  
Kwava fires three arrows past the healer and convalescent into Ruran’s zombies. He fires again and again, three arrows for each zombie.

Racaille  
Racaille quirks an eyebrow. That’s fifteen arrows, eighteen counting the three Kwava had fired into combat, yet his quiver appears none the emptier.

“Right. Glad that’s settled.”

Ruran  
Ruran’s blank face twitches at Kwava’s immediate and endless fury. Their fist clenches around the poppet in their lab coat pocket. Sure they were life-desecrating undead, but they’d been dead once, too.

Merimna  
Merimna yawns, audibly. She stretches both arms for good measure.

“I’m going back to bed. Night night,” she finger-waggles.

Medomai  
“Good night, all.”

Medomai tucks his wand away and nods at Racaille. He’d advise Racaille to wash up before bed, but that’s outside his healer’s jurisdiction.

Racaille  
Racaille touches his chest. He rubs the blood between his fingers. No, yeah, he should definitely rub down with a cleaning stone before he permanently stains his bedroll.

“G’night,” he says, walking off to do so with a wave.

Ruran  
“Good night,” says Ruran stiffly.

They can’t look at Kwava. They return to their log by the watch fire.

DM  
Kwava stares past Ruran himself even as he returns to his own position by the fire.

Mase returns with Syleg’s head, now missing its larval tongue, and presumably with Serem as well. He holds up his grisly prize with a toothy grin.

“We’re getting us a payday, Doc. Thanks for the help.”

Serem  
“No prob,” says Serem whether the question was directed toward him or not. “I can start the next shift now, if any of you want a break.”

Ruran  
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

DM  
“I’m also fine,” says Kwava with equal stiffness.

Serem  
Serem shrugs.

“Ok. Goodnight. See you in less than an hour.”

Ruran  
Ruran waves Serem off with a tight smile. They have even less to say to Kwava.

DM  
Mase plops down between the half-elf and the elf. He pulls out his flute and pipes up what he imagines to be an awkward-silence-breaking tune, but what perhaps is an awkward-silence-aggravating tune.

On the upside, the rest of the night passes uneventfully. When morning comes, you’re able to set out for Clegg’s camp under a light but continuous drizzle. It takes a full morning and afternoon’s worth of wet, muddy plodding, but you reach camp without any further setbacks.

You have about a day or so before you have to make the trek back to the harbor to rendezvous with Captain Josper Cree on the Flying Cloud. Though there’s not much to do at Clegg’s camp apart from rest, recuperate, and reflect upon your experience.

Serem  
Serem spends his time hunting and learning different ways of preparing the wild meat from the camp’s cook.

Medomai  
Medomai sleeps, mostly. What time isn’t spent lazing about is spent daydreaming about how he’s going to spend all his hard-earned coin once they get back to the city.

Racaille  
Racaille takes a good, long, hard rest. He needs it mentally as much as physically after his near-death experience. While he’s awake, however, he hangs out in the back of Serem’s cooking class, auditing.

Ruran  
Ruran avoids Kwava as casually but as reliably as they can. Their time with Mase is coming to an end anyway, so they hang out with the druid as often as they can just talking or listening to his flute-piping.

Merimna  
Camp life is boring. The closest thing that Merimna has to entertainment is her nights with Akron. With Akron working during the day, however, Merimna hangs out at the edge of camp, lazing and smoking.

She can’t wait to spend the money already burning holes in her silk. Even more, she can’t wait to lead her team before an organization as powerful as the EBI. This entire business about the renegades and the falling stars--this is the big time. Merimna can feel it deep at the back of her cig hit.

“Look out world,” she breathes in curling smoke, “cuz here we come.”


	29. Log 29

DM  
Captain Josper Cree of the Flying Cloud is glad to see you after a harrowing week of worry. He gets everyone back to Riddleport safe and sound just like he promised. As the stone arch of the Cyphergate rears up into view on the horizon, Kwava calls everyone onto the main deck.

“We’re about to head north to Crying Leaf, the nearest EBI headquarters, so take a day to run any pressing errands,” his eyes narrow to violet slits, “but keep quiet about the plans. We’ll meet back up at Riddleport’s northern gate at dawn.”

\--/--

Serem  
Serem thanks the captain and bids the others, “See ya later!”

He disappears into the crowd at the docks. He’s got nothing pressing or secretive to get up to, but for his last day in Riddleport for who knows how long, he’s got a special errand that the others probably wouldn’t enjoy.

Serem goes shopping in the most packed, thronging, and vibrant sector of the market that he can. He takes his time, letting the noise, heat, and constant push and pull wash over him. This is part of the city that the elves of the Mierani Forest never tried nor wanted to replicate. 

Serem lets out a sudden snort of laughter. He actually knows folks in Mierani. This Crying Leaf trip might get interesting.

\--/--

Racaille  
After the others disembark, Racaille goes in search of Josper.

DM  
Josper is still on the Flying Cloud. He leans on the ship’s rail, looking out at the reconstructing pier and the flotilla of brand spanking new ships on the waterfront. He smiles at Racaille’s approach.

“Hey.”

Racaille  
“Hey.”

DM  
“This is goodbye, isn’t it?”

Racaille  
Racaille sighs. Josper had a coast to speed-sail. By the time Kwava let Racaille return to Riddleport, Josper would be long gone--impossible to know when the captain would return.

With an answer like that, it’s best to just avoid the question altogether.

“I owe you for putting me up all this time.”

DM  
“Nahhh, you were my best mate. Still could be.”

Racaille  
Racaille gives the half-orc’s hand a squeeze on the rail.

“Don’t--don’t hold your breath.”

DM  
“I won’t if you won’t.”

Racaille  
Racaille snorts and shakes his head, smiling. Best not to make this any more painful than it already is. And yet...he closes his eyes.

“Goodbye, Josper.”

DM  
The captain brushes his lips to Racaille’s jawline.

“Goodbye, and good luck.”

\--/--

Ruran  
The first thing Ruran does off the Flying Cloud is turn in their resignation to the Cayden Cailean temple morgue. Mase can come along for the circus for all they care. Not there could possibly be as much of a scene as there was when they got fired from the Urgathoan morgue.

DM  
Mase does come along, and, as Ruran predicted, there’s not a circus. People naturally tend to go in and out of the temple of Cayden Cailean, possibly something to do with their god being the Lucky Drunk.

“Well that was easy,” says Mase.

Ruran  
“Yeah. Wow. Time to go get paid for Syleg, then?”

DM  
Mase lifts the rotting head from his pack and gives it a wee nod.

“You betcha.”

\--/--

Medomai  
Medomai strolls leisurely down the waterfront under his floral-print parasol. As one of the dhampir unaffected by sunlight, he doesn’t need it any more than the average pasty-skinned half-elf. It’s just for the aesthetic.

Merimna  
Merimna walks arm-in-arm with her brother under the shade of his parasol. They make a striking duo. If she can ever get the rest of the team to rise to their level of aesthetic, it would be her second proudest achievement. The first, of course, is to bring the team to their level of power.

Medomai  
“So what’s on the agenda today, Mina?”

Merimna  
“I believe a shopping trip’s in order.”

Medomai  
“I’ve been meaning to upgrade this damn crossbow.”

His hit-to-miss ratio has dipped embarrassingly low. Too much focus on healing, perhaps.

Merimna  
“You do that. I’m going to get this bow fixed.”

Enough to compete with that holier-than-thou stick-in-the-mud Kwava. 

The corners of Merimna’s smile turn up at the thought of unseating the elf as the team’s reigning archer. One day, removing the need for him at all.

\--/--

DM  
Kwava waits for you at dawn outside Riddleport’s northern gate. He acknowledges your presence with the barest nod, being engaged in business. His conversant is a tall, sun-tanned Ulfen woman with dusty black hair with two dozen horses at her back. Unlike the elf, she waits until you approach to continue speaking.

“Strange days these are when stars fall from the sky. I am Windbraid. You are Kwava’s friends?”

Ruran  
Ruran blinks at Kwava.

“He said we were friends?”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava drops his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Merimna  
Merimna’s jaw drops. Wow. She is literally too stunned to speak.

Serem  
“Great friends,” says Serem, throwing a cordial arm over Kwava’s shoulders and giving his embarrassed friend a one-armed hug. “I’m Serem. This is Ruran, Merimna, Racaille, and Medomai.”

Racaille  
Racaille nods at his introduction. He doesn’t have the energy for anything else--neither he nor Josper had slept a wink last night.

Medomai  
“A pleasure, Windbraid, and a strange day, indeed,” Medomai grins.

DM  
“Yes, strange, right,” says Kwava. “Windbraid, thanks for the horses.”

Windbraid’s pack of horses steps away from six horses of variously colored coats as though on cue. One of the six snorts and paws the road north with an impatient hoof. Windbraid gives you all a smile.

“Kwava, Serem, Ruran, Merimna, Racaille, and Medomai--good luck and swift manes.”

The Ulfen puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles. The rest of the pack steps to attention. They follow Windbraid in through the gates of Riddleport.

Kwava takes the reins of the six horses and passes one out to each of you. He keeps the reins of the last, one with a flaxen chestnut coat.

“It’s a three day’s ride to Cryling Leaf if we set out now, so saddle up.”

Ruran  
Ruran does their best to get up into the saddle of their silver dapple pony.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran sets one foot in the stirrup and immediately falls backward, arms windmilling. Their back slams the ground with a little dusty poof.

Merimna  
Merimna instinctively winces at the necromancer’s hard fall. She takes her time with her amber champagne-coated horse, Kwava’s urgency be damned.

DM: @Merimna  
Or un-damned. It only takes Merimna a single try to step into the stirrup and throw her leg over the saddle.

Serem  
Serem helps Ruran up and hops onto his bay.

DM: @Serem  
Serem’s equine confidence is well-founded. Like Merimna, he’s a natural in the saddle.

Racaille  
Racaille takes a deep breath and grabs the saddle horn of his bay roan. Come on, come on. He takes a leap of faith.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s faith is as well-founded as Serem’s confidence. He practically slides into the groove of the saddle.

Medomai  
“Lucky you.”

Medomai takes his time with his own perline-coated horse. No sense in falling over and wasting a healing charge.

DM  
Much like his sister, Medomai is also a natural in the saddle.

Kwava quirks an eyebrow at Ruran.

“Well?”

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran tries again, slower this time.

DM  
Ruran finally does get into the saddle this time.

With everyone ready, Kwava leads you all up the trail along the outskirts of the Mierani Forest. The forest is a place of ancient life, with immense fir trees, pines, and redwoods making up the majority of the flora. The three days pass idyllicly.

At dusk on the third day, Kwava leads you into the forest itself, but a screen of plants prevents observation of what lies within. He stops, raising a hand.

Olive-skinned elves in forest camo emerge like willowy ghosts from either end of the green screen. They approach slowly, holding bows in a non-threatening but ready manner. The leader, a combat-scarred elf with dark brown hair and a steel frown jerks their chin at Kwava.

“Kwava.”

“Kaerishiel.”

“Eviana’s waiting.”

Without another word, the scout leader puts a small silver whistle to their lips and blows three times. As the last twittering note fades, the green screen springs to life.

Thorny vines pull away to reveal a small settlement in a floral, garden-like clearing. The village of Crying Leaf is a modest one, with low structures made of curved stone and carved, living wood. 

What is immediately apparent is that this settlement has recently seen battle. A number of buildings bear burn marks and other signs of damage. Most of the citizens are armed with bows and swords.

Ruran  
“What happened here?” Ruran asks so quietly they might as well be asking themself.

DM: @Ruran  
“Demons,” spits Kaerishiel, “and the renegades who summoned them.”

Serem  
Serem looks over at Kwava. From the way he’d talked about Crying Leaf and the renegades, this is a new development.

DM: @Serem  
From the flicker of raw emotion over Kwava’s face, this is, indeed, news. But not unexpected from the way that he quickly recovers.

Medomai  
“I’m...sorry to hear that.”

Merimna  
“We’re happy to help,” says Merimna, quick to undercut her brother’s preternaturally casual tone.

And even happier to prove themselves worthy to this Eviana of the EBI, their most powerful connection to date.

Racaille  
Are we? Racaille massages a temple with one hand, keeping his reins in the other. He sighs.

“We’re pretty good at killing,” he adds, helpfully.

DM  
Kaerishiel looks from the group to Kwava with searing disgust.

“This is the ‘help’ you bring to Crying Leaf?”

Kwava keeps his violet stare dead ahead and shrugs.

“It’s not the help we deserve, but it’s the help we need.”

He trots his horse past Kaerishiel into the center of town. Kaerishiel grunts and stalks up on his tail. They only stop at an ornate long hall roofed in broad, autumn-hued leaves.

One end of the hall is open, revealing an immense table that runs its entire length. At the far end, seated upon a tall chair of polished birch, is an armed and armored woman at elven middle age. Kaerishiel strides up to take the seat at her right.

Kwava dismounts and hands his horse off to an obvious EBI intern. He strides toward the seat at her left.

“Eviana, this is--” he introduces you. “Everyone, Eviana, head of the Crying Leaf branch of the EBI.”

“Please, be seated,” Eviana says in a flat, weary tone.

She snaps her fingers. A group of interns pop out from the woodwork to help you dismount and take your horse. One stands back with a woven sack of what can only be Serem and Racaille’s coin.

Ruran  
Ruran takes a seat at the farthest end of the long table from Kwava, Eviana, and Kaerishiel. Which is the other head of the table, but they’ve already sat down. They offer a sheepish cackle, squeezing their poppet in their pocket.

Serem  
“Thanks.”

Serem takes the sack and empties it out onto the table, seeing as they’re doing this here. He splits the heap of coin into two smaller heaps. He sweeps his off the edge of the table and into his own pack. 

They’re square with the EBI. Serem takes a seat anyway, on Ruran’s right. 

He’d recognized plenty of the armed villagers on the way in, but he doesn’t recognize Kaerishiel or Eviana or any of these EBI agents. The EBI must’ve opened its headquarters here after he’d gone on walkabout.

Medomai  
Medomai sits on Ruran’s right leaving a space for Merimna closest to the head of the table. Not that it would cover for Ruran’s rustic faux pas. He aims his smile at Eviana, professionally.

Merimna  
Merimna sits between Ruran and Medomai, her smile frozen on her face after Ruran’s faux pas, quickly followed by Serem’s. She steeled herself for Racaille’s, inevitable at this point.

Racaille  
That is...a lot of coin. Racaille can barely believe Kwava, no, the EBI had planned to shell it all out to Serem. Hooking up with these guys clearly has its perks.

Racaille sweeps his coin off the table and into his pack as well. He drops into the seat beside Serem and crosses his legs.

“Thanks. Now, how can we continue to help you against these damnable renegades?”

DM  
“You understand that everything we say here doesn’t leave the bows of the Mierani?” says Eviana. 

Ruran  
“Yes, right, of course.”

Serem  
“Absolutely.”

Medomai  
“Perfectly.”

Merimna  
“We do.”

Racaille  
“You have our word.”

DM  
Eviana gives a single, sharp nod.

“Kaerishiel, brief ‘em.”


	30. Log 30

DM  
Kaerishiel rolls out a long map stretching from Crying Leaf’s edge of the Mierani to Celwynvian, an ancient elven city fallen to the forest and officially under a protected “returned to nature” policy.

Kwava opens the map you found in the renegades’ chest overtop of Celwynvian. Kaerishiel and Eviana immediately leave their seats to inspect the enemy detail.

“Gozreh’s balls, they’ve infested every corner,” mutters Eviana. 

She reveals that the EBI’s been on the renegades’ case for years, ever since their defection. They all belonged to a single cell of the EBI led by one Allevrah, adopted by the drow house of Azrinae.

“And she’s turned all her training against us,” growls Kaerishiel.

Whenever Crying Leaf prepared a major strike, the renegades would flee into a pocket dimension, the “Armageddon Echo”. Worse, their superiors in Kyonin have insisted on calling the shots from their far distant headquarters after the star fall.

“Technically, I’ve gotta confer with the Kyonin branch before we make our next move.”

Ruran  
Ruran frowns in thought.

“If you confer every time, and the renegades disappear every time, then--”

Medomai  
Medomai reaches an arm behind Merimna to squeeze Ruran’s shoulder for silence. The rat could be listening even now.

Racaille  
It’s almost pointless to mention it, but, “You’re running out of time. Kwava, did you show them the journal?”

DM: @Racaille  
Kwava clears his throat as Eviana and Kaerishiel’s heads swivel in his direction. He hands over the journal. They snap it up at arm’s length between them.

Eviana lets out a long, low sigh.

“Gozreh’s tits, Kwava,” mutters Kaerishiel.

The slightest flush spreads up from Kwava’s neck into his otherwise stoic face and pointed ears.

Serem  
Serem offers Kwava his most reassuring smile and shrug if the elf is even looking.

Merimna  
Merimna gives her most reassuring smile to Eviana. Unfortunately for Kwava, there’s nothing she can say to sugarcoat his incompetence. She can really only hope it won’t reflect on her team, which she does with a near-religious fervor.

DM  
Eviana is the first to speak/sigh, “Taking into account these recent developments, we’re gonna have to ask you, all of you, to wait until we make a decision. That said, we appreciate your continued desire to...help. The interns should’ve prepared rooms for you by now--Kaerishiel.”

Kaerishiel releases the journal with a flex of their fingers. They jerk their iron glare onto Kwava but address all of you, “Follow me.”

Kaerishiel strides out from the hall without a look back.

Ruran  
Ruran continues frowning. Sure, Kwava hadn’t been the warmest, friendliest elf on the shelf, but seeing someone they know being treated so coldly roils their gut.

Ruran steps in between Kwava and Kaerishiel’s glacial aura. Friends don’t let friends put up with that shit.

Medomai  
Interesting. Medomai isn’t bound to Kwava one way or the other, but Ruran is making a statement--that, Medomai can’t help but throw his ostentatious presence into.

He walks past Kwava and falls into step beside Ruran.

Racaille  
They’re really doing this. Racaille sucks his teeth. He shrugs and adds himself to the humanoid wall building between Kaerishiel and Kwava.

Serem  
Serem gives Kwava’s shoulder a squeeze as he passes the elf. He steps up on Ruran’s other side and smiles down the line at the necromancer, the healer, and the rogue.

Merimna  
Merimna gives the tiniest sniff. Her team is pulling together to do something, a small and ultimately insignificant thing, but nonetheless something. Of course she has to be a part of it.

She falls into stride beside Serem, taking his hand in hers mostly so the backs of their hands don’t keep knocking past each other.

Serem: @Merimna  
Serem grins at Merimna as well, squeezing her hand. They’ve got Kwava covered, literally and completely.

DM  
Kaerishiel’s rigid back stiffens only slightly more at the display of team-building behind them. They continue to march at pace through a growing crowd of following, loitering elves to an idyllic wood and stone cottage on the forested edge of the village.

The cottage offers three chambers: a central room, a simple bathroom, and a bunkroom containing eight woven reed mats. An oak table surrounded by gracefully carved chairs dominates the main chamber. Atop this table is a mound of fruits and vegetables, freshly harvested.

Kaerishiel remains by the front door.

“Help yourselves to anything on the premises. You’re free to tour Crying Leaf if you wish, but most homes and businesses have been evacuated. Dinner will be delivered here at eight.”

Ruran  
“Thanks,” says Ruran, already reaching for a guava from the fruit bowl.

Medomai  
“Indeed,” says Medomai, reaching under Ruran to snag an apple. “I’m guessing we’re done, then?”

He tosses the apple across to Mina and takes another for himself.

DM: @Medomai  
“We are.”

Kaerishiel pivots and heads out the door without another word.

Racaille  
Racaille leans back against the edge of the table. He waves goodbye to Kaerishiel’s stiff back.

Serem  
Serem settles into a lean beside Racaille. He reaches back for the first fruit he can grab. Dinner’s in two hours--gotta take the edge off somehow.

Merimna  
Merimna snatches Meda’s apple out of its arc. She gives Kaerishiel a finger-waggling wave as she takes a bite.

DM  
Not ten minutes after the door has shut on Kaerishiel, however, is there a sharp knock, twice. It’s followed by a sluggish, almost apathetic tap.

Ruran  
Despite both cheeks chipmunk-full of guava, Ruran’s nearest the door. They open it chewing a mile a minute.

DM: @Ruran  
Two elves stand just outside the door, alone--the crowd of onlookers has dispersed, leaving only the two. The first is a tall, powerfully built elven woman with deep olive skin and hair dyed green. The second is a hunched, sallow-skinned elven man with lank, prematurally grayed hair.

“Hey, Serem,” say the two, the first with striking clarity and the second at a mumble.

Medomai  
Medomai looks from the two over his shoulder at Serem.

“Friends of yours?”

Serem: @Medomai  
“And lovers,” Serem laughs. “Everyone, this is Shalelu,” he gestures toward the green-haired elf, “and this is Giseil.”

By this time, he’s crossed to their side of the room and sweeps them up into a laughing, jovial hug on either arm. He introduces the rest of the team with whispered chuckles in their pointed ears.

Racaille  
“Hi, nice to meet ya,” says Racaille, his eyes flicking from door to door for an escape to some other, preferably soundproof room.

DM: @Serem  
“A pleasure,” says Shalelu. “Shall we stay for dinner?”

Serem  
“Of course!”

DM: @Serem  
“Eh, thanks,” says Giseil, glancing at everyone not from around here.

Merimna  
Merimna smiles through her teeth. Giseil’s shiftiness is putting her on edge, but the best remedy is to put him at ease with dinner and drink, if available in this broke-ass village.

DM  
Dinner is served promptly at eight, brought in covered baskets by a line of interns. Most of the dishes are fruits or vegetables, lightly processed, but there’s also freshly hunted meat, squirrel, and fish stew. Unfortunately, if there are drinks in this town, they’ve all been rationed to the soldiers.

Kwava stays quiet during dinner and its serving. He picks at his food, eating only what he needs, barely looking up from his plate.

Shalelu and Giseil are quite the opposite, Shalelu is, anyway. She eats, laughing and barking comments about the food, Crying Leaf’s state of affairs, and more. Giseil mostly just snickers and mumbles between bites.

Ruran  
Ruran keeps an eye on Kwava while they eat but it doesn’t stop them from enjoying the sweet potato fritters and more.

“So what do you do?” Ruran asks the two.

DM: @Ruran  
“I lead Crying Leaf’s volunteer rangers,” says Shalelu, “so a lot work with the EBI these days.”

“I, eh, I’m a necromancer,” says Giseil.

Medomai  
A necromancer? In Crying Leaf? Another one, anyway.

“You’re joking.”

Racaille  
“Yeah, how does that not violate your entire pantheon plus Gozreh?”

Serem  
“They don’t worship the pantheon on the Mordant Spire, got their own set of beliefs, really.”

DM: @Serem  
“Yeah, technically, ol’ Giseil here is the Mierani Forest’s ambassador from the Mordant Spire,” says Shalelu.

“He just so happens to be a necromancer,” Kwava finally speaks up. “But one strictly forbidden to raise the undead while on Mierani grounds.”

“Yeah, I’ve mostly just been turning undead.”

Merimna  
Fucking perfect. Another fucking necromancer. At least this one seems to know his place...as ambassador?

“Why wouldn’t you lead with the fact you’re an ambassador?”

DM: @Merimna  
“Eh, I like to know how hated I am behind my back but to my face.”

“That’s how he gets his sick kicks,” Shalelu snorts, her mouth full of half-masticated brussel sprouts.

Ruran  
Welp, that explains why Serem has been so chill with Ruran being a necromancer. They give Giseil a sympathetically sheepish grin.

“I’m a necromancer on probation, too.”

Medomai  
“And how would you say the state of affairs are concerning the renegades?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Bad enough you’re all gonna get pulled for duty as soon as Eviana and Kaerishiel come up with the next battle plan,” says Shalelu. “We’ve suffered loss after loss.”

“A real waste,” says Giseil.

Kwava glares a discreet dagger in the necromancer’s direction.

Racaille  
“Right, so, does that mean we’ll be working with you?”

DM: @Racaille  
“Hey, I guess it does,” Shalelu waggles her eyebrows at Serem.

Giseil’s grin wavers as he glances at everyone not from Crying Leaf.

“It’s a fair assumption,” Kwava mutters, stabbing a fork into his salad greens with a muted crunch.

Serem  
“Just like old times,” Serem waggles back.

Merimna  
“If we’re going to be out in the field, then we should work out our teams. Let’s say no fewer than two per team.”

DM: @Merimna  
“I’m best sniping off renegades from a distance,” says Shalelu, “but I don’t carry my longsword around for show.”

Giseil pokes the gray robes over his belly.

“I’m, eh, pretty squishy all the time.”

Ruran  
“I can’t be up front either.”

Medomai  
“I wear enough armor to turn most blades, but healing is my...primary function.”

Racaille  
“I can be up front as long as I’ve got backup.”

Serem  
“I’m fully frontal.”

Merimna  
And Merimna is purely ranged. She sticks a pen between her teeth and pulls out a scrap of paper.

“Gimme a sec, team.”

She writes out the names, draws lines, scratches them out, and draws new lines.

“Hmmm. Alrighty then. Medomai, you’re with Serem.”

She has no doubt that those two would keep the other alive.

“Racaille, you’re with...Giseil,” she smiles, smiling even wider on the inside.

It’s almost too bad she won’t be around to see Racaille trying to get on with necromancer number two.

“Ruran, you’re Kwava’s backup.”

The kind of backup more liability than support. If those two spelled the death of each other, they wouldn’t be missed.

“Which leaves...ah, Shalelu, looks like you’re with me,” Merimna chuckles behind her hand.

Ruran  
Ruran face freezes into an instinctive cringe as they turn to look at Kwava.

Medomai  
Medomai frowns. No, he’s got nothing to worry with Serem by his side, but...he’s got Serem by his side. He doesn’t have Mina. They’re going into a war zone, and he won’t be able to protect her.

Racaille  
Racaille groans but keeps it internal. He slaps on his best game face and grins at necromancer number two.

“Looks like we’re partners. Yay.”

DM: @Racaille  
“Yay,” Giseil mumbles back with a watery smile.

Serem  
Serem winks at Medomai, popping a finger gun across the table.

“We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Merimna  
“Nothing at all.”

DM  
Dinner wraps up summarily. Kwava leaves the cottage’s chambers for the starlit rooftop. Shalelu and Giseil hang around only long enough to invite Serem to a private for the night. 

You’re otherwise left up to your own devices.

Ruran  
Ruran goes out the cottage through whichever door or window Serem, Shalelu, and Giseil aren’t using. They look up at the cool, starlight sky in the village clearing. 

Ruran floats upward. Their boots crunch on the thatching between the roof’s wood and stone. They’re working with Kwava, maybe tomorrow. They’d better lay down a good footwork.

Medomai  
Medomai leans against the wall outside the dining room door. He pushes off at the clack of Mina’s boots.

“Hey. Can we talk?”

Racaille  
Racaille pushes in his seat, dropping his head. The travel made him tired. The meeting made him tired. The dinner made him tired.

“I’m going to bed,” he says to no one in particular.

Serem  
Despite the travel and the meeting and the dinner, Serem heartily agrees to go off traipsing with Shalelu and Giseil for the night. When it comes to friends and tiredness, his friends always win out.

Merimna  
Merimna stops in the door. She leans against the frame and pulls out her cigarette and holder. Oc course she knows what this is about, what it could only be about. Merimna takes a long drag.

“Why are we even having this talk?”

Medomai: @Merimna  
“Better question, why are you trusting a stranger, admittedly hot but no less strange, to watch your back in a literal war zone?”

Merimna: @Medomai  
“You heard the EBI yourself. They’re using guerilla tactics. We go as a group and we’re either dead or strike nil like all the rest of Crying Leaf’s forces.”

Medomai: @Merimna  
“Surely two groups of four wouldn’t condemn us to death by guerilla.”

Merimna: @Meodmai  
“No, they wouldn’t. But the EBI has made exactly zero progress. What they need now more than ever is maximum efficiency.”

Medomai: @Merimna  
“And what do we need?”

Merimna: @Medomai  
Merimna blows two curling plumes of smoke from her nostrils over her ice-cold grin.

“Reputation.”

\--/--

DM  
Kwava doesn’t move at Ruran’s approach. He sits on the edge of the rooftop leaning back on his hands, feet dangling.

Ruran  
Ruran sits down an arm’s length from Kwava. They take off their boots and let their bare feet dangle as well.

“I’m surprised the EBI’s making you stay with us.”

DM  
“Well, this IS my house.”

Ruran  
“Oh, damn.”

DM  
Kwava’s head doesn’t move, but he glances in Ruran’s direction.

“It’s not. I’m not even from the Mierani Forest. I’m from the Mwangi Expanse.”

Ruran  
A joke. He’d made a joke. Ruran cackles weakly. It’s a start.


	31. Log 31

DM  
There’s a knock at the door at dawn. It’s Kaerishiel.

“This is a wake up call. I’ll be back to take you to Eviana in an hour.”

Ruran  
“Ok, but Serem’s not here!” Ruran calls out from under the cover of their travel blanket. “He left with Shalelu and the ambassador.”

DM: @Ruran  
There is a pause.

“Ah. Interns will be sent.”

Racaille  
Racaille crawls up from the reed mat grumbling incoherently. One night’s sleep hadn’t filled the cup after all that travel.

He staggers into the bathroom and heads as directly as he can to a bathtub. Thank the infernal host this hidden leaf village has internal plumbing. As soon as the tub’s full of steaming water, he sinks in and luxuriates for the better part of an hour or until it gets cold.

Merimna  
Merimna wakes without a word to anyone, Meda or otherwise. She crosses her legs and enters the meditative state she needs to set her spells for the day.

Medomai  
If Mina isn’t going to acknowledge last night, then Medomai sure as fuck isn’t. He swaddles his bare shoulders in his travel blanket, grabs his make-up kit, and heads to the bathroom. His spells can wait until he’s made himself presentable.

“Morning, Racaille,” he says breezily.

Racaille: @Medomai  
“Morning,” Racaille murmurs back without opening his eyes.

The steam is doing wonders not only for his complexion but his skin as well.

DM  
As promised/threatened, Kaerishiel returns at the end of the hour to take you back to Eviana. Shalelu and Giseil escort Serem there. This time, multiple contingents of rangers stand behind Eviana’s chair at the head of the table. Kaerishiel joins her but Kwava remains on your side of the table.

“The EBI has made its decision,” says Eviana wearily. “Based off your information, we believe a fast, hard strike may be able to drive out the renegades. But my superiors don’t want you a part of this operation unless we have absolutely no choice,” she lets out a deep, haggard sigh. “Which means a courtesy period of twenty-four before you’re clear to go in and rendezvous with Kaerishiel.”

Ruran  
“The EBI’s really putting the B in bureaucracy, huh?” Ruran mutters under their breath.

DM: @Ruran  
As it happens, Ruran’s at a table of sharp-eared elves, all of whom, including Kwava, Kaerishiel, and Eviana, snort at their remark.

“Be that as it may, we can’t disobey the upper echelons,” says Eviana.

“They’re watching,” says Kaerishiel.

Racaille  
“Then they know that going in separately will be more dangerous for both you guys coming in strong and us coming into Hells know what.”

DM: @Racaille  
“Yes,” say Eviana and Kaerishiel flatly.

Merimna  
It’s a power play, a fucking power play, but a test as well. Merimna takes a long sigh. She could use a smoke.

“It’s not like we have a choice. Kaerishiel, see you in twenty-four.”

She waves and pivots on her heel. She’s certainly not taking her smoke in this stuffy, dry-ass hall.

Serem  
“Anything you need us for while we’re just chilling?”

DM: @Serem  
“We’ll let you know if something comes up,” says Eviana.

“You’re technically on call, so not getting incapacitated is my only advice,” says Kaerishiel.

Medomai  
“Sound. Thanks. Be seeing you then.”

Medomai turns on his heel as well. He joins Mina outside, leaning against the wall. He breathes in the scent of her smoke. It’s calming, but nothing he’d do himself.

DM  
With that, the meeting ends. Kaerishiel doesn’t say goodbye so much as they nod ‘see you again’. As skilled as they and their company must be, they have no illusions about the EBI’s gods-awful decision.

Though promised a full twenty-four hours of killed time, an intern appears to summon each of you back to Eviana in only twelve hours’s time.

Ruran  
Ruran runs in after the intern, pockets full of fruits they’d grabbed off the dinner table.

“What’s the sitch?”

DM: @Ruran  
Eviana stops in her pacing. Her face appears more haggard than usual. Though she waits for everyone to arrive before speaking, she doesn’t sit down. 

“I received word from Kaerishiel’s familiar--the rangers split up as planned, but one group has been pinned down in a tower here,” she taps a point on the tabletop map of Celwynvian. “It’s already a ruin--easier to destroy than retake. The group won’t last the night.”

Racaille  
“So we go in as a single, united force and hold off the renegades long enough to extricate the rangers?”

DM: @Racaille  
Eviana shakes her head with a low, rusty sigh.

“The shortest route to the tower is through enemy grounds, here. Sneak through and rendezvous at the tower for the big number.”

Merimna  
“It’ll be easier to sneak as smaller groups,” says Merimna, her pointed tone aimed at Racaille even as her gaze takes in the map. “Here, here, here, here.”

Each spot receives a pointed tap from her perfectly manicured nail.

Serem  
“Merimna’s right.” 

They don’t have time to trek through the forest and take on all the renegades occupying the surrounding area.

“But if you get caught, give ‘em Hells.”

Medomai  
“Just don’t compromise anyone else’s stealth. The rescue is the priority. If you get caught, you’re on your own until you rendezvous with the rest of us.”

DM  
“Any more questions?” asks Giseil, shouldering his pack.

“Or are you ready to go?” asks Shalelu.

Kwava says nothing but gives his newly assigned partner Ruran a slight nod.

Ruran  
Ruran nods back.

“Ready.”

Racaille  
Racaille meets the other necromancer’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Ready to go.”

Merimna  
“Let’s do this,” Merimna winks at Shalelu.

Serem  
“Meda?”

Medomai  
Medomai’s smile stretches thin at the over-familiarity but doesn’t falter.

“When you are.”

\--/--

DM  
Those of you who need them receive red-lensed darkvision goggles, on loan from the EBI, before you set out. Even with their aid, the trek through the deep forest takes four hours. At long last, however, the elves in your separate companies signal for a stop.

For Ruran, that’s Kwava holding up a hand. He looks back at them, eyes stern and focused behind his red lenses. He doesn’t say the words, but there’s a clear plea for Ruran’s best stealth.

Ahead, the ruins of Celwynvian loom up from the wood and darkness. Gnarled trees and dense vines cover many of the crumbling structures in a twisted landscape of leafen walls and spiny towers. 

A pair of statues weathered away to stumpy-limbed columns mark the entrance to the ancient city. Beyond, small piles of rubble litter the ground around an outer, mostly intact wall. Creeping vines cling to its pitted surface. Its stone doors are slightly ajar.

Ruran  
Ruran takes a deep breath and holds it. They follow after Kwava with their stealthiest steps. In their pocket, their hand squeezes iron tight around their stitched leather poppet.

DM  
Much to Kwava’s surprise, Ruran treads as lightly as a spider on silk. The necromancer may have completely missed the threat from the walls, but Kwava points out the still shapes in the darkness, a group of snipers on the roof.

The two slip through the open doors into what appears to be an erstwhile lobby. Rubble and debris in the form of books crumbling to dust obscure the floor. Thick sheets of web cover the opposite end of the lobby.

Three spiders, each the size of an elf, crawl out from the depths of their funnel-shaped web.

Ruran  
Ruran bites back a scream and flies as high as they can under the ceiling.

DM  
Kwava does not manage to stifle his curse, muttered through his gritted teeth. He fires off three arrows into the head of one spider.

It doesn’t stop. The three throw themselves at Kwava, mandibles opened wide.

But thanks to his goggles, Kwava sees them coming. He dances deftly out of their ravening maws.

Ruran  
In the safety under the ceiling, Ruran recovers enough to guess that spider with three arrows in its brain is on its last legs. They aim their hand crossbow at the spider and fire one off.

DM  
Ruran’s arrow twangs astray. Kwava grunts disgruntledly and swaps his bow for a longsword. He chops through the thrice-lobotomized spider in one stroke and slashes into the next spider up.

The slashed spider and its hale brethren continue to fling themselves mandibles-first at Kwava. Their envenomed fangs scrape off his armor.

Ruran  
Ruran’s spells just aren’t cut out for spiders. For anything not-undead really. They squint their eyes nearly shut and fire a bolt.

DM  
Apparently squinting is all the magic Ruran needs. The bolt finds a chink in the wounded spider’s exoskeleton and burrows in deep. The spider drops dead.

Kwava lays into the last spider, severing head from thorax in two silent-but-deadly sweeps. The pieces of spider flump to the floor oozing green goo over the crumbling books.

Kwava flicks the spider goo off his blade. He tilts his head just enough to glare one eye up at Ruran.

“You can come down now…”

Ruran  
He doesn’t have to say “coward”. Ruran can feel it as heavy as a iron-shod hoof to the face at the end of his sentence.

They float down with a choked, nervous cackle that turns to true choking once in range of the poofed-up book dust. They pull the collar of their jacket up over their nose and mouth.

“Can we go before I blow us?” they strangle out.

DM  
Kwava rolls his eyes. He turns his back on Ruran and slices through the web funnel. He doesn’t look to see if Ruran follows.

\--/--

DM  
Racaille and Giseil emerge from the woods outside a crumbling stone tower wreathed in twisting vines. A pitted staircase winds around its rounded wall to a balcony. A faint light glows from a cage of short, fat pillars alive with small but demonic dancing shadows.

Giseil puts a bony finger to his lips and begins a slow sneak up the staircase.

Racaille  
Racaille makes the five-pointed sign of the Asmodean pentagram over his chest and follows after Giseil. He’s a rogue. He’s entitled to stealth, in theory. Asmodeus, Prince of Hell, is just for contingency.

DM  
Perhaps Racaille has offended his Damned Infernalness. He turns to the staircase and immediately stubs his toe. But the cackling, child-sized demons above are so absorbed in their Abyssal dance that they don’t notice the stony echoes.

Racaille makes it up behind Giseil, who slips past the balcony and down a long, dark tunnel. Even with the darkvision-goggles, there’s no end in sight for all of a small, claustrophobic eternity.

Finally, you glimpse a stone door sixty feet from where you tread. Giseil has stopped in his tracks, hands buried in his sleeves.

“Could be locked,” he rasps in Racaille’s ear.

Racaille  
Bullshit. Well, not total bullshit, but Racaile has absolutely no doubt in his mind that Giseil just doesn’t want to go first. He doesn’t blame the necromantic bastard, but the elf could at least have the decency to be upfront about it.

He shakes his head and sneaks to the door, thieves’ tools at the ready.

DM  
Though closed, the door is not locked. Through the keyhole, Racaille glimpses tall stone bookcases coated in dust and cobwebs. The shelves lean ominously to one side. Thousands of crumbling tomes litter the floor with dust and peeling leather.

Racaille  
Fuck, there’s nothing for it. Racaille pushes the door open as quietly as stone will push.

DM  
The stone turns on its hinges with a whispered grinding no louder than Racaille’s own breath. The inhumanly keen ears of those within immediately take notice and position.

Two skirmishers load bolts into their crossbows. Their captain apparent murmurs words of arcane power.

“Fuck,” Giseil mutters behind Racaille’s back, snapping a finger at the nearest skirmisher.

His curse streaks black and blue from his bony fingertip and melts into the skirmisher’s chest.

At the same time, both skirmishers fire off their crossbows. One bolt grazes Racaille’s armor. The cursed’s bolt flies into the heart of a bookshelf.

Racaille  
“Here goes nothing,” Racaille mutters, drawing his shortsword and dagger.

He runs up to the captain with a vicious slash.

DM  
The captain’s magic is strong, but not strong enough to deflect Racaille’s bloodthirsty blades. Both draw blood and curses from the captain.

The captain retaliates with a spell. A wave of ice-cold magic washes to the core of Racaille’s bones. He freezes in place, paralyzed.

“Gods damn it,” growls Giseil.

He throws out another snap, this time at the captain, “Eat shit and de-level!”

Unluckily for the captain, his curse is as true as his aim. The captain loses all four of their last levels...the spell-casting ones.

The skirmishers fire once more. Their aim hasn’t improved in the past few seconds.

Racaille  
Racaille shrugs off the de-levelled captain’s holding spell. He grins at the un-magicked caster.

“Tough titties,” he slashes.

DM  
Racaille’s blades tear through the captain’s nerfed defenses. They drop dead to the ground. The stalwart if half-cursed skirmishers, however, continue loading their crossbows.

“Are you fucking serious? Did you not just see us shred your captain to string cheese?”

Giseil fires a wand of magic missiles off at the non-cursed skirmisher. Four missiles sail whistling out into the skirmisher’s chest, dropping the skirmisher dead.

The remaining skirmisher, cursed but undeterred, fires. They still can’t aim for shit.

Racaille  
“No worries, mate. I’ll put you out of your embarrassment.”

Racaille brings sword and dagger down on the last cursed skirmisher.

DM  
Racaille’s cross-sweep cuts the renegade to quarters. The ancient reading room falls back into its natural state of quiet.

Racaille  
Racaille looks over at Giseil with a roguish grin.

“Not bad, Ambassador. Just don’t bring any of these buggers back from the dead.”

DM  
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Least not while I loot ‘em.”

Giseil stoops down to collect and identify the haul. The skirmishers each carry a potion of cure light wounds. The captain carries three scrolls of cure moderate wounds, one scroll of web, an enchanted whip, and a silver holy symbol of Abraxas, demon lord of forbidden knowledge, worth twenty gold.

“Damn. I’m not spoiling for any of this shite.”

Racaille  
“Really?” asks Racaille, pocketing both potions, the four scrolls, and the holy symbol.

He takes the whip for good, selling measure.

DM  
“Really,” Giseil answers dryly, watching Racaille’s looting. “That all, then?”

Racaille  
“That’s all for now, folks. Let’s get a move on.”


	32. Log 32

DM  
Serem and Medomai exit the forested reaches by what had once been a much larger structure, but today, is only one crumbling dome. A hole in its top belches forth a noxious cloud of sickly green smoke, and pools of smoking liquid cover the area around the ruins. The dome appears to have only one visible entrance...across a moat of rubble and alchemical waste.

The acrid stink of the wastes, in fact, is so noxious that it burns the fine hairs inside their nostrils and leaves them queasy or worse, depending on their Fort saves. 

No, yeah, they’re both sickened af.

Medomai: @DM  
Except Medomai is immune to the sickened condition because that’s just how he Oracle-rolls.

DM: @Meodmai  
Right, except for Medomai. So that’s just Serem taking a penalty on like everything.

Serem  
That is some foul-ass waste. Serem clamps a hand over his nose and breathes through his teeth. He doesn’t dare open his mouth. His stomach wouldn’t survive it.

Medomai  
Medomai, immune, pats Serem’s shoulder.

“Tough luck, buddy.”

DM  
In a stroke of even tougher luck, a bolt of lightning streaks out from over the fetid moat as though on cue and zaps Serem straight in the chest. The darkness sizzles in its wake. Smoke rises not only from Serem, but the inken black finger of a drow. 

Half a drow. The lower half of their body has melded with the head of a giant, horse-sized tarantula, its eight eyes now fixed around their waist and ribs like the orbs of a flesh and bone Christmas tree. 

Serem  
“Gozreh’s holy fuck,” Serem pinces out in his pinched, nasal voice.

He reluctantly drops his fingers and shifts into bull-tiger form, heightening his sense of smell. Serem forces down his rising bile and charges onto the most solid-looking rubble of the moat.

DM: @Serem  
Once over the moat, Serem’s basically inhaling acid. The vile fumes burn the inside of his lungs, and he’s only made it a third of the way across.

Medomai  
Baaad, bad, bad, bad. Medomai stretches one hand out at Serem, opening a life link between them. He taps his wand of curing against his own palm. The link passes on the healing.

DM  
The drow grins. Down below their hips, their giant, tarantula mandibles part in a similar spread. They levitate up over the far bank of the moat and point their finger at Serem once more. Lightning crackles and thunders out.

Duck and dodge as he might, the edge of the bolt grazes Serem’s arm with a burning hot shock.

Serem  
Spider-drow’s levitating. That’s a problem. One Serem’ll deal with once he gets across this bloody pond. He runs for all he’s worth.

DM: @Serem  
Serem moves double-time to get to the far bank and gets double the acid burn for his troubles.

Medomai  
“This is bullshit,” says Medomai from his perch of relative safety.

He taps the wand to his palm once more, evening out the wounds taken.

DM  
The drow’s mouth closes to a thin, thoughtful frown. They send another bolt of lightning careening out at Serem sixty feet down below their abdomen.

Serem shifts just enough to turn the bolt away from his heart, but he still gets zapped like a lamp-loving moth.

Serem  
So...Serem still has no long range weaponry. He’s really gotta fix that, later. For now, he slips on his slippers of spiderclimb and runs up the wall of the dome behind spider-drow.

Medomai  
Medomai sucks his teeth. Serem appears to have hit upon the least efficient and most ridiculous solution to this no-range problem. He sighs and points a finger at the elf from across the moat. Healing’s about to take second place to pure, brute strength.

“Get swole, my man.”

DM  
Swole doesn’t come close to Medomai’s +8 buff to Serem’s already bulked up muscles. The elf goes from full-time gym bro to absolute unit of a bull in a fleshy snap, crackle, and pop.

The drow hisses at Serem, firing off their last lightning bolt of the day. This one does slam Serem’s chest like a flaming semi.

Serem  
Serem screams in pain but buckles down for the jump. There’s no stopping now. He can only trust Medomai to do that healer shit.

Serem takes a leap of faith, claws bared.

DM: @Serem  
Serem rips the shit out spider-drow’s abdomen and manages to grab hold of its oozing bulk, sixty feet off the ground.

Medomai  
Medomai stares gape-jawed from the other side of the moat. His hand floats up as though of its own volition. His palm lies feather-soft over his forehead, near-unconsciously mitigating as much damage as he can.

DM  
Spider-drow, screaming with their upper mouth, isn’t having this. They wail on Serem with a crushing mace and tear at Serem with their hip-mandibles.

Unfortunately, spider-drow’s a better caster than they are a mace-whacker. They land only a single, weighty blow to Serem’s shoulder.

Serem  
Serem spits blood with a laugh. He slashes at spider-drow with every ounce of his uber-swole might.

DM: @Serem  
Serem rips spider-drow a new one and them some, all of them raining down into the moat from sixty feet above. And leaving Serem without a paddle all the way up there in mid-air.

Serem: @DM  
Serem, letting his ring of feather-fall kick in, just aims his feet down at the most solid-looking rubble and glides on down.

Medomai  
With the pressing dander defeated, Medomai physically shuts his own jaw. He picks his way cautiously across the moat and joins Serem on the other side, slapping both hands onto either of Serem’s arms.

“You…”

Serem  
Serem bursts out laughing and pulls Medomai into a full-bodied, full-swole-bodied hug.

“Us. That was us.”

\--/--

DM  
A rising column of green smoke greets Merimna and Shalelu as they step out from the forested reaches into a ruin stinking of burnt and acrid chemicals. Shadows and firelight paint the crumbling, vine-choked walls with their broken, flickering dance.

Merimna  
“I’m gonna level with you,” says Merimna, wrinkling her nose at the carcinogenic fumes. “My stealth could use some work. Would you mind recon-ing for us?”

DM  
Shalelu grins and shrugs, “What else is a sniper for?”

She sneaks off, vanishing into the darkness. She returns ten minutes later having swapped her carefree grin with a more businesslike frown.

“We’re looking at one extremely well alchemically-stocked drow and six troglodyte interns.”

Merimna  
Merimna steeples her fingers beneath her pointy chin.

“What al-chemicals are we talking?”

DM  
Shalelu lists them off on her fingers: three kettles boiling unknown but presumably hazardous chemicals over a fire, two glass tanks one holding what appears to be green acid and the other holding some oily black substance, and an entire laboratory’s worth of miscellaneous flasks within elbow’s reach at any given point in the ruin.

Merimna  
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Merimna grins.

DM  
“Every time I answer that question with ‘yes’ I’m wrong.”

Merimna  
“Duly noted. Here’s the plan: you go in first, sniping the tanks. In the confusion, I can sneak into position without getting noticed and drop the kettles in the mess.”

DM  
“Then we can pick off the survivors!”

Merimna  
“And you said you weren’t thinking what I was thinking,” Merimna gives Shalelu a playful, flirtatious punch. “Come on. Let’s give ‘em Hells.”

DM  
But as Shalelu sneaks off a second time, she unwittingly leaves her luck behind. Shouts of a foreign language are audible all the way from Merimna’s position of relative but precarious safety. They’re followed by the high-pitched clink and shatter of glass, the whoosh of gushing liquid, and more screams.

Merimna  
Blown stealth is as good a distraction as any. Merimna sneaks into the position opposite Shalelu as best as she can.

DM  
Merimna’s best is about on par with the stealth of a one-man drumline. Fortunately for her, the inner chamber reveals a single drow, the alchemist, surrounded by the dissolving bodies of their reptilian interns. The alchemist glares at Merimna but is too busy casting buffs on themself to spare a word in their direction.

Shalelu carries on with the plan of distraction, firing off three arrows at the drow. 

As the arrows fly in, the drow splits into four shadow clones of themself. The first arrow buries itself into the stone wall. The second shatters a clone. The third hits the real alchemist, causing all three to snarl in pain.

Merimna  
Welp, if the alchemist’s just gonna stand there in kettle-range, there’s no reason not to stick with the plan. Merimna fires her own trio of arrows, each aimed at a kettle.

DM  
Merimna’s arrows sic three, ten-foot lines of burning acid on the alchemist. Only one hits, but even those that don’t land on the alchemist still spray them with enough acid and flames to dissolve their body right before Merimna and Shalelu’s very eyes. The drow’s screams die out shortly before they’re rendered entirely puddle.

Meanwhile, the flames continue to blaze. Heated flasks pop and shatter, spewing their contents as fuel into the growing pyre.

Merimna  
Merimna cups one hand around her mouth and shouts across the burning laboratory, “Looks like our work here’s done. Let’s move on before they send in the fire brigade.”

DM  
“Look who’s reading minds now!”

\--/--

DM  
Everyone manages to get through their separate routes with mostly stealthy success, but nobody misses the explosions coming from Merimna and Shalelu’s corner of the ruins. The flames and smoke are still coloring the background as you reach each of your chosen corners around the besieged tower.

CHUNK. The sound of activation is immediately followed by the sharp thwip of rope and even louder bash of metal on stone with a burst of flame for good measure.

Six drow at the base of the tower reload what can only be a ballista with incendiary bolts.

Ruran  
The renegades have a flaming ballista. Ruran looks over at Kwava. They could technically hang back until the others get here, but that tower’s crumbling and burning enough as it is. A weak cackle escapes their lips.

“I think...we’re gonna be the distraction.”

DM: @Ruran  
“Are you up for that?” Kwava asks with half a snort, already readying his bow.

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran’s face burns hot. Their glamoured skin flushes a purplish red.

“How much do you weigh? I mean, you want a lift this time?”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava’s frown remains unturned, but he raises his arms just high enough off his body to allow the necessary physical contact.

“Just try not to fly us into a ballista bolt.”

Ruran: @DM  
Ruan ducks under Kwava’s legs and sets their shoulders against his thighs. Instead of standing up, Ruran flies up, letting themself straighten out under the two of them. They zoom out over the renegades in distracting fashion.

“Flap-flap, motherfuckers!”

Serem  
Serem watches in utter bemusement as Ruran flies out with Kwava on their shoulders as a self-designated distraction. He glances over at Medomai beside his still-massively-swole shoulder.

“So...distraction or infiltration?”

Medomai  
Meodmai raps his knuckles against his metallic, enchanted breastplate. It konks and echoes.

“I didn’t dress for infiltration tonight.”

Serem: @Medomai  
“Distraction it is.”

Serem shifts into bull-tiger form, bulking even more. He charges out into the clearing with a bull-tiger roar.

Medomai: @Serem  
Medomai hangs back in the shadows but throws one hand out at Serem’s ri-donk-culously muscled backside, establishing a life-link.

“Make it rain, my man.”

Merimna  
Merimna notes the lack of Meda on the frontlines with a nod of satisfaction. Those three are plenty ridiculous-looking enough.

“Shall we?”

DM: @Merimna  
Shalelu shuts her jaw and pries her eyes off Serem’s swole backside.

“Yes. Let’s. Before I get any more distracted.”

She shifts from horn to stealth like a true professional.

Racaille  
Racaille surveys the field. Giseil could be the un-sneakiest bastard in the world and still slide on by with the current distraction going on.

“Ready to coast this stealth test?”

DM: @Racaille  
Half a smile flickers up onto Giseil’s face.

“I was born to coast.”


	33. Log 33

DM  
We’re gonna do the distraction first. You’ve got the jump on the ballista-operating crew but not for long.

Ruran  
True to their word, Ruran flies Kwava out over the ballista crew on the handle-end. They hold onto the elf by the boots to keep them steady enough on their shoulders to fire.

DM  
Two arrows whistle down from over Ruran’s head. They bury themselves into the chest of one renegade, dropping the drow like a fly.

Serem  
Serem charges in under them at ground level. He slashes his claws at the nearest drow soldier.

DM: @Serem  
Bulked up as he is, Serem’s claws plow through the drow soldier like a scythe through a wheel of cheese.

Medomai  
Medomai keeps his healing wand at the ready, but everything seems to be under control, bloody, bloody control. He relaxes under his perpetual smile behind the cover of the trees and ruins.

DM  
With the surprise expended, everyone rears into renewed action.

Medomai  
Medomai readies a healing charge if necessary but otherwise continues to chill.

Serem  
Serem rounds on the next soldier with his bloodied claws.

DM  
Ribbons of raw flesh and sundered armor splay out from between his claws. The last drow soldier is no more, leaving three skirmishers.

Kwava fires three arrows at one said skirmisher. The last arrow spins wildly off course and into the treeline but the two others thunk through the drow’s skull.

The two skirmishers left scream. One draws a shortsword and slashes at Serem. Missing, of fucking course. The other fires a bolt not at Kwava but the flying Ruran. The wind knocks the bolt off course.

Ruran  
Ruran lets out a relieved cackle at the near miss and keeps up the flying.

Medomai  
Medomai mentally cheers the slaughterers on, ‘Ra-ra-ra!’

Serem  
Serem attacks the sword-wielding drow with all the slaughterous gusto.

DM  
Serem’s skirmisher flies apart into three distinct pieces.

Kwava nocks three arrows and fires them straight down into the final skirmisher. The drow drops dead, feathered tails sticking like daisies from the crown of their head.

The ballista clearing falls still and silent.

\--/--

DM  
Meanwhile, the extraction team moves through woods and ruins toward the tower. As stealthy as they attempt to be, no one can miss Merimna’s armored shuffle nor Giseil’s stumble over a knot of root and rubble.

Four crossbow bolts sail out from the shadows. They glance off everyone’s armor and plink to the floor. They’re followed by the equally unmissable roar and heated blaze of a fireball launched at Merimna and Shalelu. 

Unfortunately, the unmissable fireball still catches the two unawares. It explodes in Merimna and Shalelu’s face for full, flaming damage.

Racaille  
Racaille winces as the ruins momentarily blaze with light--that’s gotta burn. That spellcaster is extraction enemy number one. He draws his short sword and dagger and cuts at the nearest renegade guarding them.

DM  
Racaille’s skirmisher proves far more slippery than expected and dodges his blades as deftly as Serem.

Giseil crooks a bony finger at the spellcaster, “Not today, Fire Fingers.”

His boneshaking spell clamps down around the drow’s spine, but the drow shakes off nearly all of his arcane grasp. When the spell hits, their bones suffer barely a twinge.

“Welp, I tried.”

At the caster’s command, the four skirmishers fire two of their bolts at Giseil and two at Racaille in point-blank range. The two at Racaille glance off his armor. The two at Giseil thwack into either leg. He staggers back, “Fuck.”

It’s the last thing he says before dropping to the ground, unconscious.

“Giseil!” Shalelu fires three arrows at the skirmisher who took him down.

The skirmisher dies before they hit the ground.

Racaille is close enough to see the spellcaster roll their eyes. The drow points once more in Shalelu and Merimna’s direction, “Ka-boom.”

As ready for the blast as Shalelu and Merimna are this time around, they still get singed.

Merimna  
Merimna grits her teeth against her scream. The ruins blur and spin around her. Her body blazes with a flameless heat. She can’t die here--she’d promised Meda. But if she does, she’s damn well taking that fucking Fire Fingers with her.

She fires three arrows at the drow, “Die, bitch.”

DM: @Merimna  
Two arrows hit, but one with the force of two. The spellcaster flies back off their feet and slides across the rubble. Dust rises from under their corpse.

Racaille  
Racaille hacks again at the slippery skirmisher. They’re not getting away this time.

DM  
Racaille strikes as true as his word. The skirmisher does not get away, does not collect two hundred gold.

The remaining skirmisher roars and fires what is likely their last bolt at Racaille. 

And boi, is it a doozy. Not only does the bolt find the perfect chink in his armor, but its poison hits like a truck, knocking Racaille the fuck out.

Shalelu fires three arrows at the last drow standing. They drop with the three crisscrossing through their neck.

Shalelu runs clutching her burnt side to check Giseil and Racaille’s condition. She grimaces, “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Merimna  
“Both,” Merimna says without looking up.

She crouches over the corpse of a drow, rifling through its belongings. Healing items are of particular interest.

DM  
“Racaille and Giseil took barely any damage from those dinky bolts, but that poison got ‘em good. They’ll be out for at least the next four hours.”

The good news is, Merimna uncovers four potions of cure light wounds and one potion of cure moderate wounds. That’s in addition to masterwork leathers, masterwork hand crossbows, a masterwork dagger, a scroll of haste, a wand of false life, a cloak of resistance, and a ring of protection.

Merimna  
“Shit,” Merimna grumbles, knocking back all four potions.

She passes the cure moderate wounds to Shalelu and dons the cloak. The scroll and wand could come in handy, so those go in her pack. She slips the ring onto Racaille’s finger in the least matrimonial way possible. The rest are getting junked for gold.

She stands slowly, looking over her comatose companions. Shalelu can’t carry both of them. She can’t carry either.

“How do you feel about hiding them?”

DM  
Shalelu frowns, “It’s too risky--Giseil’s an ambassador, for Gozreh’s sake. I’ll stay here and guard them if you want to go on ahead, but it’d be safer for everyone if you don’t go alone.”

Merimna  
Merimna looks from Shalelu to the tower and back, teeth grinding in thought. The other half of the team should be heading to the tower soon. From the opposite end, sure, but she could meet up with them, with Meda, in no time at all.

“Can you handle guard duty alone?”

DM  
“I can hide us, yeah, but get back here as soon as you can.”

Merimna  
“Done.”

Merimna sets off for the tower without another word.

\--/--

DM  
The distraction team, having dealt summarily with the ballista crew, finds themselves in the clear before the ruined tower’s pock-marked front entry hall.

Serem  
Serem lowers his claws. Red liquid and gristle drips to the ground. There’s no sign of the other team from this side of the tower.

“I’m thinking we go in and rendezvous on the inside.”

Medomai  
Medomai jerks his head at the ballista, “And leave this for the next renegade patrol to commandeer? The tower’s on its last legs--you don’t want to be inside when it comes down.”

He’d know. Serem should too, incidentally. They’d both been in a collapsing tower scenario last week.

Ruran  
“Some of us could head in and some of us could stay back to guard the ballista. I’m good with either.”

DM  
“I’ll stand guard,” says Kwava.

Serem  
“I’ll head in.”

Medomai  
The elves inside could probably use some healing, leaving Medomai without a choice.

“Looks like I’m with you,” he smiles.

Ruran  
“Good luck you two.”

Ruran takes this time to loot the bodies.

DM  
Each of the skirmishers carries a potion of cure light wounds, masterwork leathers, and a masterwork hand crossbow. Each of the soldiers carry a potion of cure moderate wounds, a mithral shirt, a masterwork buckler, a masterwork crossbow, and a masterwork rapier.

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran passes the healing items to Medomai to help take the load off his wand.

Medomai: @Ruran  
“Thanks. Actually, could I get one of those bucklers as well?”

Serem: @Ruran  
“And a crossbow for me, thanks.”

That should solve Serem’s range issues.

Ruran: @Medomai @Serem  
Ruran passes out the items, upgrading their hand crossbow to a masterwork one as well.

Serem  
“Right. Take care out here.”

Serem pats Ruran and Kwava’s shoulders as he jogs past.

Medomai  
“Yep, later.”

Medomai follows at a more leisurely, fast-paced stroll.

Ruran  
“Good luck,” Ruran waves.

DM  
What once was an airy, decorated entry hall is now a barren, roofless chamber. Four, off-white marble pillars support the roof remains. Two broken stone benches sit on either side of the room. Dust shakes down from a dull pounding upon the stone doors to the north.

A creature nine feet tall and six feet wide in the darkness beats upon the stone with not two but four arms. Even from your end at the opposite side of the hall, you catch the unmistakable stench of necromancy.

Serem  
Too bad Ruran isn’t around. Serem shrugs. He goes in for the attack while he’s still got the jump on whatever this thing is.

Medomai  
Medomai doesn’t like the look or smell of this thing, but it’s not like he could call Serem off without blowing their stealth. Instead, he draws his crossbow and fires off two rounds.

DM  
Serem’s claws score deep down the creature’s exposed, stitched backside. It roars in pain and rage, turning to face its attacker.

Dozens of arrows are threaded through the loose folds of its flesh and fat, binding together the multiple elven bodies that comprise it. The flesh golem wields a pair of longbows in two arms, keeping the other two free.

Medomai’s bolts bounce harmlessly off its stitched and enraged face.

Medomai  
Medomai lowers his crossbow. Yeah, no, he’s not wasting any more dinky bolts on boss monster over here. He readies a healing charge from his wand instead.

DM  
The golem drops one longbow. It slams at Serem with its two free hands. Its newly freed hand fires three arrows at the swole elf from point-blank range.

But as ridiculously swole as Serem is right now, he’s as light as a dancer on his feet. Of all the blows, only a single fucking arrow hits.

Serem  
Serem roars and carries on his strength-enhanced assault.

DM: @Serem  
Assorted dead body parts fly off the golem as Serem hacks away.

Medomai  
Medomai sends a charge down the life link just in case Serem’s luck gives out during the golem’s next attack.

DM  
A barrage of fist and arrows rain down upon Serem. This time,both skill and luck have utterly forsaken him. When the dust settles, Serem lies unconscious at the golem’s feet.

Medomai  
Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. Medomai doesn’t hope for the best. It’s all he can do to send the most powerful healing spell he can down their shared link.

DM: @Medomai  
Healing magic surges into Serem’s bloody, battered body. He wakes on the ground beneath the golem, who attacks yet again.

The blows of the fleshy mountain rain down. This time, they give no quarter, crushing Serem to his gory death. 

Medomai  
“Fuck!”

Medomai turns tail and runs from the entrance hall. He throws caution to the winds, waving his arms for Ruran and Kwava’s attention, never mind anyone else’s.

DM  
The golem chases out after him. Though its steps are lumbering even at full speed, the distance between them will only protect Medomai for the next few seconds. Ruran and Kwava, however, just might.

Ruran  
Ruran reacts on auto-pilot, ducking under Kwava’s knees and flying them up into the air.

DM  
Kwava reacts likewise, taking the lift in ‘stride’. He fires three arrows down at the flesh creature coming apart at the seams. To the elf’s horror, all three arrows bounce haplessly off the golem’s flesh.

Medomai  
Medomai’s eyes open wide. The golem’s about to catch up with him. This...is it.

He slides to a stop, wheeling around to face the golem. He looses two bolts.

DM  
A single bolt burrows in between the creature’s stitches. 

The golem shrugs it off. It slams two fists into Medomai and fires three arrows up at Kwava. Two fly true into the elf’s side.

Ruran  
Ruran busts out the scroll of cure moderate wounds. Medomai’s wounds are more grievous, but it’s a touch spell. They read out the words, keeping one hand on Kwava’s calf.

DM  
The arrows fall from Kwava’s side as the healing magic pushes them out and seals his wounds. Kwava grunts his thanks and fires another three-arrow volley.

Once again, only a single arrow hits. Though closer to death than before, the golem is mostly unphased.

Medomai  
“Die!!!”

Medomai fires his crossbow into the golem’s multi-personed-face.

DM  
The first bolt bounces off the golem’s neck. The second shoots straight down its roaring maw.

The golem chokes. It staggers and falls as silent as the grave.

Ruran  
Ruran flies Kwava and themself back down to solid ground. As they clamber out from under Kwava, they look to the doors of the entry hall. They retrieve a second scroll of healing from their pack and read it off for Medomai.

Medomai  
“Thanks,” says Medomai, voice hollow.

He slumps where he stands, swaying on his feet. He tilts his head toward the stars over the ballista clearing. His smile is smaller than it’s ever been, the trace of an open curve.

Ruran  
“Meda...where’s Serem?”

Medomai  
A soft, strangled note escapes Medomai’s throat. He tilts his face back down, blinking fast.

Ruran  
Ruran staggers back. Their back bangs against the wood of the ballista. They don’t feel it. They can’t feel anything but the burning, iron grip crushing their chest like the mouth of dire bear.

DM  
“This...isn’t the time,” says Kwava.

His words are matter-of-fact, but his voice is hoarse and thick.

“Kaerishiel is in danger inside. We’re in danger out here. We have to move fast, but we can’t be in both places at once.”

Medomai  
Medomai squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t have a fuck to spare on Kaerishiel. But Serem’s inside. They won’t have the chance to get him if they don’t go in.

“In.”

Ruran  
Ruran hurriedly wipes their sleeve across their face. They sniff and nod.

“Let’s go.”


	34. Log 34

DM  
Merimna enters the tower through the back, alone. A pool of congealing blood greets her boot. Elven corpses are strung up along the walls of this hall, each bearing an open cut across their throats. 

An ancient elven statue stands before a pair of stone doors. Its skin has been painted red with blood, an face-splitting smile carved from ear to pointy ear.

Merimna  
Merimna rolls her eyes. Talk about overkill. She picks her way along the driest path to the doors.

DM  
The chains clink against the walls. The corpses twitch. They slide out from under the chains and down the walls, leaving four red smears on either wall.

Merimna  
“Ugh, bring it on you ugly shits.”

She fires three arrows at the closest zombie. Being a dhampir hasn’t affected her complete and utter loathing for the undead.

DM  
The first of the zombies drops. The other seven claw and tear at Merimna. Only one lands a blow, slamming her the chest.

Merimna  
Merimna roars and fires at her mindless attacker.

DM  
Two of Merimna’s arrows strike true, ending a second mindless life. The remaining zombies attack.

Three powerful blows slip through Merimna’s defenses. Bones crack under her armor.

Merimna  
Merimna’s curse chokes off with a bloody gurgle. She’s realized her hubris far too late. This was a numbers game. It always had been. She’d just been too skilled and too lucky to--Meda.

Merimna’s mouth twists into a blood-stained grimace. Her brother’s face blazes at the forefront of her mind. She screams and fires at the next zombie.

DM  
Merimna’s weakening grasp slips on her arrows. They fly wide through the maddening crowd.

The six zombies rail against her. One blow knocks Merimna to her knees. The second tears out her throat. She falls, her redness mingling with the pool across the floor.

\--/--

DM  
Medomai, Ruran, and Kwava reach the locked doors at the end of the entry hall. Kwava shuts both eyes at the sight of Serem’s bloodied, battered corpse but crouches before the door. He retrieves a set of thieves’ tools from his pack and squints his eyes open at the lock.

Medomai  
Medomai keeps his eyes on Kwava’s back. He raises them only once to meet Ruran’s.

“We’ll get him on the way out,” he says with assurance despite the tremor in his voice.

Ruran  
“Right,” Ruran chokes out on the wings of a strained cackle.

DM  
Kwava gets the door on the second try. Though ancient, the doors swing open silently.

A stone stairwell, mostly intact, winds the inner wall of the tower. Unlike the doors, your footsteps echo on the stone. Three heads peer down from the darkness above. 

Kaerishiel and two others jump down the landing above you. Each of the unnamed rangers carries another, unconscious ranger on their backs. Kaerishiel’s stern, haggard face relaxes an inch at the sight of you.

“You got here just in time.”

CR-RACK. A tower-shaking crash proves Kaerishiel false. Flames explode through the wall over the entry hall. The stone stair shakes and crumbles along the wall. Stones rain down upon you.

A heavy block breaks against Medomai’s back, but he manages to keep his footing. A second barely misses Ruran’s head.

Medomai  
A renegade patrol must’ve--Medomai shakes his head. There’s no time.

“We have to get out of here! Can you fight?”

DM: @Kaerishiel  
Kaerishiel draws their bow in answer.

Ruran  
“Go! Go! Go!” Ruran waves the rescued rangers out through the entrance.

They stay by their side like a proper escort as they run down the entry hall.

DM  
Dust continues to fall from the loosened stones. CR-RACK. Entire blocks drop from the ceiling and walls of the tumbling tower.

Medomai  
Medomai jumps and skirts the edge of the block shattering where he’d stood.

Ruran  
Ruran steps with all haste, running out from under the path of the falling stones.

DM  
You race into the cool, night air not a moment too soon. The entry hall collapses behind you with a thunderous crash. It’s followed by the tower itself who’s fall shakes the very earth under your feet.

Two skirmishers and four reptilian troglodytes ring the ballista and a bald, heavily scarred drow built like an ox. His eyes light upon Kaerishiel and a dark smile dances across his lips, “Master Nolveniss bade me give you his apologies that he will not be present to see you die.”

The mocking utterance barely has time to ring through the clearing before he leads his patrol into a charge.

Ruran  
Ruran’s been through this enough times tonight to know exactly what to do. They fly up from the grass with Kwava on their shoulders.

DM  
The scarred captain slashes at Medomai, his sword crackling with white-hot electricity. He deals the half-elf a shocking blow.

Medomai  
“Freeze, sparkle-sword,” Medomai growls in pain.

DM  
The captain shrugs off Medomai’s smile, grin widening at his failure.

Kwava fires three arrows at the captain from over Ruran’s shoulders. All three rip sizeable chunks of scarred flesh from the captain.

Kaerishiel offers the captain the same courtesies just from ground level. Their arrows rip more flesh from the captain but can’t take him down.

One skirmisher fires at Kwava. The other fires at Kaerishiel. 

A bolt tears across the skin of Kwava’s arm. He hisses at the pain but doesn’t fall to its poison.

The troglodytes attack in pairs with tooth and claw. The pairs rip into the two defenseless rangers.

Ruran  
Ruran gasps at the troglodytes’ merciless attack. This has to end now, starting with their bastard captain.

They point their poppet at the captain, “Fuck you!”

DM  
The captain shrugs off the brunt of Ruran’s boneshaking spell. A few bones crack, but it’s not enough to keep him from slashing down on Medomai.

It is, however, enough to keep him from actually hitting Medomai.

Medomai  
“Die, bastard,” Medomai spits.

He fires his crossbow into the captain’s face.

DM  
Medomai’s bolts punch through the captain’s skull. He drops to the ground, smile frozen on his scarred face.

Kwava immediately fires at a troglodyte. Kaerishiel fires at one on the other ranger. Both targets drop dead.

The skirmishers continue to fire at Kwava and Kaerishiel. One bolt buries into Kaerishiel’s leg. 

The elf’s eyes roll to the back of their head. Kaerishiel falls, unconscious.

The remaining two troglodytes attack a defenseless ranger each. The two cry out in pain, but neither fall nor drop their unconscious companions.

Ruran  
“Kaerishiel!”

A single bolt from a skirmisher--they’re the most dire threat here. Ruran points their poppet at a skirmisher, “May your bones be shaken.”

DM: @Ruran  
The skirmisher screams as each of their vertebrae snap. The scream dies, abruptly.

Medomai  
Ruran’s got the right idea. Medomai fires his crossbow at the remaining skirmisher.

DM  
Medomai’s bolts put a quick stop to the skirmisher’s machinations.

Kwava fires his bow. A single arrow to the back of the skull ends one troglodyte. The two others end the second.

Ruran  
Ruran takes Kwava back down to the ground.

“Meda, are you ok?”

Medomai  
“Peachy,” Medomai grins wryly. “Gather everyone around.”

As soon as they’re within thirty feet of him, he releases a surge of golden, healing energy.

DM  
Medomai’s channelled energy heals everyone but himself back to full health. It does not, however, wake Kaerishiel or the poisoned rangers.

Kwava hauls Kaerishiel over his shoulders. He glances at the collapsed tower and looks about to speak but says nothing in the end.

Ruran  
“We didn’t see the others inside. They could still be around back.”

Medomai  
They won’t have any stealth with himself and the elf-laden elves shuffling about. Medomai swallows, steadying his voice, “We can’t spare more than ten minutes--we just, we can’t fight like this.”

Ruran  
“Then let’s make it count. Kwava?”

DM  
“Ten minutes. No more.”

Two minutes is all you need to find Shalelu, mostly because she steps out from vine-wrapped shadows. Her eyes sweep over each of you, counting heads. Her mouth presses into a wavering line, eyes watering.

Medomai  
Medomai shakes his head. It doesn’t stop a cavernous pit from opening up in his stomach nor the blood from draining out through his feet. He can’t even think her name.

Ruran  
“No,” Ruran breathes.

Not Racaille and Merimna, too. Not after Serem.

DM  
Shalelu turns on her heel. She doesn’t look as she speaks, her voice choked, “Giseil and Racaille are with me, but I need your help. They won’t wake up.”

Medomai  
“I can’t carry Racaille alone,” says Medomai, his voice as stiff and brittle as ice.

The smile has evaporated from his face. It’s been replaced by a paper-thin sheet of nothing.

Ruran  
“Together, then.”

DM  
Half-way back to Crying Leaf, enough time has passed that the two unconscious rangers wake up. One takes the burden of the unconscious Racaille off Medomai and Ruran’s shoulders. By the time you step out from the forest and into the village, Racaille, Giseil, and Kaerishiel begin to stir.

EBI interns rush to your sides. They escort you to an infirmary thick with heat and the smell of burning herbs. The wood and stone hall is packed with wounded rangers, but they find cots for those who need them and seats for those who don’t.

Kwava drops heavily onto a wicker stool.

“Eviana will be coming,” he sighs.

Medomai  
Medomai neither sits nor lies. He doesn’t even look at his companions, fixing his gaze at the patterns in the wood grain of the wall.

Ruran  
Ruran sits down beside Kwava’s stool and Racaille’s cot though they’d much rather be lying down. They lean heavily against the infirmary wall instead. The full breadth of the night’s activities lay like a lead sheet over their body, sinking their limbs.

DM  
Eviana arrives, haggard as ever. Her eyes light on the waking Kaerishiel, ambassador, and rangers. But they take in your losses and her expression remains unlifted, unchanged.

“If you want out now, Crying Leaf owes you safe passage to Riddleport...or wherever you need to go.”

She nods at an intern. They set three small wooden chests within reach of Medomai, Ruran, and the waking Racaille.

Medomai  
Medomai traces the rim of the chest with a single fingertip. Out. Riddleport? Laughter bubbles and gurgles up from his iron-bound chest.

“Riddleport!” he doubles over, arms hugging his sides.

There’s nothing for him in Riddlepot. There never was.

Ruran  
Medomai’s jagged laughter shatters the lead weighing them down into stabbing, gouging shards. Ruran heaves themself to their feet and straight into Medomai’s doubled, laughing form. They slouch down just enough to wrap their arms around his shoulders.

Racaille  
Racaille sits up, blinking in confusion. One look at the disturbed, diminished group before him tells him all he needs to know about the outcome of their mission. Tells him Serem--he squeezes his pricking eyes shut again. 

Hot, bitter tears leak between the lids. They knew better. He knew better. And he still let Merimna go on with her utterly fucked plan.

Medomai  
The sudden, bodily contact rips the laughter from his throat. He unbends upward but continues to shake in Ruran’s arms. His eyes meet Eviana’s over a sloppy, tilted grin.

“Out? When C-Crying Leaf remains in need?”

He reaches around Ruran, plucking up his box of gold. He gives it a shake.

“Such need, I cannot ignore.”

Ruran  
Ruran keeps hold of Medomai for as long he stands there as much to support him as to comfort themself. They meet Eviana’s eyes from around his shoulder, only the top half of their head showing.

“I...I can’t go back to Riddleport and do nothing. Not when I could be here, doing something. Just...not like this.”

The glamoured hues of their skin ripple and pull like bedsheets away from their crown. Their hair bleaches bone white. Their skin darkens to liquid black with the yellow-purple sheen of a subcutaneous wound.

“Will you still have me?”

DM: @Ruran  
“It’s your necromancy that’s the problem,” says Kwava, his voice hollow and robotic. “But you’ve proven to be a necromancer we can work with.”

“Indeed,” says Eviana. “The EBI and I, personally, am grateful for your help and sacrifice this night.”

Racaille  
Racaille’s eyes open with a flurry of tear-swallowing blinks. He takes in Medomai and Ruran at his cot-side. Hugging, shaking, and hiding--they look as defenseless as they are in a divided party.

“I’m with you. But the next time, we go as a team. All of us. Together,” says Racaille, his voice low and set with ultimatum.

DM  
“Our next time of need is gonna be tomorrow--today, noon,” says Kaerishiel, pushing themself to sitting. “We found an entrance to their demi-plane hidey-hole, the Armageddon Echo. There’s just no telling how long it’ll stick around.”

Medomai  
“Tomorrow then. Party on!” Medomai cheers, raising his gold box over Ruran’s shoulder in a clanking toast.

Ruran  
“Tomorrow. Good.”

The longer Ruran could put off being alone with their thoughts, memories, feelings, the better.

Racaille  
“High noon it is.”


	35. Log 35

DM  
You are left to rest, recuperate, and reflect on your experiences for the rest of the morn. Meanwhile, the renegades hustle and bustle within the drow’s dim and muted demi-plane.

A flaxen-haired drow stripped of all weapons and armor lies shackled to a circular table at the center of a unlit domed chamber. The walls’ painted forests mockingly surround the disgraced captive. Black smoke bleeds and billows from between the trees.

The smoke spreads in a black flood that swallows the floor up to the rim of the table. Its frigid tendrils lap at the drow’s defenseless backside. Up from the cloud of icy darkness rises a wolf of black smoke. It stands as tall as horse, its black, razor-sharp fangs drinking in the light. Its low growl shakes the drow to the core of their bones.

The wolf opens its lightless maw. It pounces on the drow’s exposed chest, ripping blood and gore from the screaming captive.

A bark of laughter ends the “experiment”. The stars of the ceiling above flicker back to muted life. The smoke vanishes and with it, the wolf.

Nolveniss Azrinae pushes off from the wall, leaving his apprentice and his current favorite troglodyte slave Lagrozan behind the invisible observation wall. He uncorks a bottle of cure serious wounds with his teeth and shakes it out over the disembowelled drow.

“I love a screamer!” he crows around the cork. “Dhuma, it’s your turn. Get out here and light the Vonnarc bastard up.”

Dhuma  
Nolveniss’ genderfluid apprentice steps through the invisible curtain. At five foot nothing, he (sometimes she and they) is shorter than the average drow, standing more than a foot under his own master. Smoke-white lines cut flame-like patterns across his inken black skin, but its his hair, flickering up against gravity from his head, that always gives him away as an ifrit.

His charcoal black eyes flick toward the captive, nails digging even deeper into the palms of his clenched fists. The potion, however, has done its job. The disowned Vonnarc is as whole and hale as he’d been before his master’s shadow wolf attack.

Dhuma reaches one white-patterned arm over the prisoner, uncurling his fist.

Al  
Al’s honey gold eyes stretch wide at the impending round of torture. The genderneutral drow pants short and sharp through his clenched teeth. If only that wolf had fucking killed him.

Dhuma  
Dhuma’s hand travels down from the prisoner’s face to hover over his chest. 

“Tell me, Vonnarc. What is your heart’s desire?”

The words fall cold and sterile from his lips even as his master’s eyes spear his back with heat. A budding sweat itches under his robes. Magic not hot but as gently warming as a candle radiates from his opened palm.

Al  
Al’s chest warms with the disconcertingly gentle heat. To his complete and utter shock, the words once safe inside his mind come bubbling out from his mouth, “I wish that wolf had fucking killed me.”

Dhuma  
Dhuma’s eyes meet the wide, terrorized gold of the prisoner’s. For a minutest fraction of a second, his cold and dutiful apprentice’s face breaks. The prisoner couldn’t have picked any worse.

The heat of his master’s stare pierces through the errant thought. Dhuma’s charcoal gaze steels over. 

The chamber stars winked out. In the darkness, black smoke bleeds and billows out from between the trees once more.

DM  
This time, Nolveniss’ laughter doesn’t stop the mauling and disembowelment. Neither does Lagrozan’s mocking, reptilian hiss from behind the invisible wall. The screams die with Al.

The stars flicker back to life at the spell’s end, reflecting off the pool of gristly blood. Nolveniss passes a corked potion to Dhuma, “Here, kid. You do the honors.”

Dhuma  
Dhuma keeps their gaze fixed on the forest mural. They uncork the potion and tip it over the dying drow’s excavated abdominal cavity. A shudder sends potion splashing out onto the gore-ridden binding table.

Al  
Al, unfortunately, comes hurtling back to life before Areshkagal, the Faceless Sphinx, can claim his soul. His arms and legs convulse, rattling his chains. The roaring howl of a caged animal tears at his throat. Only a single thought rears it in, a vow of seething hatred--when he escaped, he would make all three of his caster-fucking-torturers pay.

DM  
“That’s my little half-blood,” crows Nolveniss, rifling a hand through Dhuma’s gravity-defying mop. “We’ll make a magickal torturer of you yet.”

He gives his apprentice’s rump a possessive but otherwise dispassionate slap, “That concludes the lab sess for today. Get on back to your books.”

He snaps his fingers at his slave. The observation wall vanishes, revealing the lizard-like humanoid.

“Lagrozan, get back to guard duty. If our dishonored guest gives you any cheek, just give him a good, hard stab. You know where the potions are.”

With that, Nolveniss turns on his heel and marches through the door. He’s got undisclosed matters of renegade secrecy to attend to.

Dhuma  
Dhuma waits until his master has gone before shaking off the slap with a shudder. He lets out a long, low sigh, deflating into a slouch. Such is the lot of a Zirnakaynin apprentice.

\--/--

Ruran  
Ruran wakes three hours before noon. They pull their travel blanket up over their head. They let it fall as they sit up. Inken black fingers tuck their silver-white hair behind their softly pointed ears.

If Serem could die, any of them could die. They might as well be wearing their real face when it happens. Serem…

Ruran’s hand closes around the leather poppet in their pocket. They let in the sounds of breath--theirs, Medomai’s, Racaille’s. The ache in their chest relaxes enough to much theirs to the others.

They tuck their legs in and grasp their poppet in both hands. The sounds of breath ring like rusted bells in their ears. Under their skin. The fine hairs on the nape of their neck stand erect. Iron bands wrap around their ribcage.

Ruran jerks to their feet, gasping for air. They run barefoot out the back door of the cottage. The grass drives needle-like into their unglamoured soles.

Ruran hisses and rockets up from the ground. They drop on all fours onto the roof’s sun-warmed thatch.

DM  
Ruran can’t hear the rapid footfalls on the crunching thatch over their gasping breath, but the dry, clarion voice is another matter.

“Ruran, you’re okay, you’re okay,” says Kwava. “What can I do?”

Ruran  
Ruran’s arm reaches out, shivering despite the daylight rays, “Wh-what’s happening?”

DM  
Kwava’s hand claps around Ruran’s forearm. He draws them to a seat away from the roof’s edge.

“You might be having a panic attack. It’s normal. It’s going to pass. Breathe--1, 2, 3, 4. Out--1, 2, 3, 4. Again.”

He counts with them until it has.

Ruran  
Several breaths later, Ruran leans back from Kwava. They wipe the wetness from their eyes.

“Thanks,” they cackle weakly, picking their fallen poppet up from the thatch.

DM  
Kwava jerks their chin in an acknowledging nod. Though his response is terse, the flintiness has left his violet eyes for the first time since Ruran’s met him.

“It happens to me now and again, an occupational hazard.”

Ruran  
Ruran nods back slowly. They turn at a right angle away from the unfamiliar look in Kwava’s eyes but don’t increase the distance between them. They cross one leg over the other.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

DM  
“Do you?”

Ruran  
“I...think so.”

DM  
Kwava turns to sit with Ruran side-by-side. He dangles his legs over the edge of the roof and leans back on his palms.

“I’ll keep it short. It looks like you need to prep your spells.”

Ruran  
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

\--/--

Racaille wakes two hours before noon. He notes Medomai’s sleeping form and Ruran’s empty mat as he gathers fresh clothes and a towel over his arm. He walks straight to the bathing room and drops his affects on a wicker stool. 

Racaille steps out of his filthy wear and kicks it out of sight under a cabinet. He sits his bare asscheek on the rim of the tub as he waits for it to fill. The heated flow churns his reflection up into a pale, soiled blur--thank Asmodeus.

He eases his legs into the tub. He sinks down the smooth curve of the wall until only his face remains above the steaming surface. He lets out a low, guttural sigh.

Archfiend’s ballsack, he could use a drink. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Yes, he could call out and wake Medomai, but Medomai needs a drink more than any of them. There’s no telling if he’d bring the goods or drain them himself.

“Fuck,” he blurbles into the water.

There’s no way in the Nine Hells he’s sending a friend down that path.

With a low stream of muttered curses, he climbs unsteadily from the tub and snatches his towel off the stool. If you want something down, you’ve gotta do it yourself. Well, everything except for mercenary work.

\--/--

Medomai  
Medomai wakes fifteen minutes before noon. It’s not enough time to remove his sweat-smeared, tear-streaked make-up much less apply a new face. The thought washes off him like water over wax.

Medomai climbs to his feet and grabs the essentials: breastplate, bucklet, crossbow, backpack. He slows beside the dining table. Food, right. Most consider that an essential.

He runs his tongue over his long, pointed teeth. As a mercenarial dhampir, he’s sure to find food on the job.

Medomai walks out the cottage door with a pep in his step and a smile on his lavender-smeared lips.

DM  
Ruran, Racaille, Kwava, and Kaerishiel wait for Meodmai just outside the cottage.

Ruran  
Ruran raises their brows. Medomai’s in an awfully good mood. That, or he’s putting on a very brave show. Either way, it’s good to see him. Ruran’s brows settle down into a cautious grin.

“Morning.”

Racaille  
Noon, technically. Medomai had really cut it close, not that Racaille can blame him. Hells, he’d done all he could to disappear when he got into his own crisis. Turning up at all took some fiendish balls.

“Morning.”

Medomai  
“Top of the morning,” Medomai grins and spreads his arms wide. “Shall we?”

DM  
“Follow me,” says Kaerishiel.

The elven ranger leads you back through the deep and tangled reaches of the Mierani to the ruins of Celwynvian. They look back only when the afternoon shadows fall and dapple the vine-wrapped stone of a crumbling hall. 

Kaerishiel places a finger to their lips. They sneak through a gap between stone and vine into a dark, circular chamber.

Racaille  
Racaille shifts onto the balls of his feet and follows after the ranger.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s boot scrapes against the stone as he steps into a heavy reek of decay. Ancient tables covered in arcane implements stand on either side in front of a faintly glowing circle scribed into the floor. Thick black smoke billows up from the circle.

Only the red lenses of Racaille’s darkvision goggles let him watch a demonic vulture ten feet tall rise from the smoke. The black cloud whorls apart into a cloak of spores and feathers.

Roll initiative.

Racaille  
“Flank with me,” Racaille growls, unsheathing and striking in the same sweep.

DM  
Kaerishiel unsheathes their longsword and steps into a flanking with Racaille. Their blade barely makes a dent against the demon vulture.

Kwava fires three arrows from the back of the group. His arrows scratch across the creature’s tough, black-feathered hide.

Ruran  
Ruran stands side-by-side with Kwava. They raise their poppet out toward the demon vulture, “Show me your pain.”

A ray of sickly, greenish-gray magic spews from the poppet’s mouth.

DM: @Ruran  
The demon vulture shrugs off the brunt of the necromantic ray, but even at half-potency, it hits. The sickly magic seeps through its feathered hide.

The creature’s beak gapes in an ear-piercing shriek. Its body wracks with the twist and warp of muscle and bone. The demon has weakened but not by much.

Medomai  
A demon? Medomai’s smile deepens. He runs up behind Racaille and raps his knuckles against the Chelaxian’s back.

“For luck.”

And protection against evil.

DM  
The demon vulture opens its beak once more. This time, its ear-piercing shriek drills to the bone with magickal enhancement.

Everyone is sonically drilled into a stunned state.

The vrock dances and chants. The air crackles with static. Its spores burst against Racaille and Kaerishiel. Though the damage is minimal, their skin crawls as the Abyssal spores take root in their flesh.

Racaille  
Racaille shivers at the spores burrowing under his skin but keeps his focus. He slashes at the vrock.

DM  
Not only does Racaille strike true but he strikes sneakily. The wicked sweeps of his blades slip through half of the vrock’s damage-resisting hide.

Kaerishiel adds to flurry of steel but not to the damage.

Kwava snarls at the vrock’s stunning attack. He fires with a vengeance, but his arrows aren’t as sneaky as the rogue’s blades.

Ruran  
Not good. Ruran flips through their mental catalogue of curses and points their poppet at the vrock. They have one that might help if they can just stick it.

“A spot upon your head.”

DM: @Ruran  
After the lightning-fast barrage of attacks, the vrock is caught off-guard by the magickal follow-up. An intangible, illusory black hallow spreads out from the vrock’s crown.

Everyone within ten feet can feel the curse sapping at the vrock’s luck and life force.

Medomai  
Medomai fires his crossbow while in curse-affecting range, then steps back into the relative safety of the back line.

DM  
Even with the help of the curse, Medomai’s bolt leaves only a scratch.

The vrock beats its massive wings, each spreading ten feet from its body. It rises ten feet into the air, permitting Racaille and Kaerishiel each an opportunity attack.

Racaille’s scores a hit, but Kaerishiel can’t hack it.

Once out of dinky, mortal weapon range, the vrock rips at Racaille with claws, beak, and talons. 

Only...Medomai’s morally gray protection from evil flares to life in a golden nimbus around the rogue. The cruel and viciously curved natural weapons glance off the deceptively sturdy light.

The vrock shrieks in frustration, sharpening the static crackle in the air.

Racaille  
“Infernal fuck,” Racaille breathes, having just stared death in the clawed, beaked, and taloned face.

And yeah, that’d been great, but now the vrock is up there and he’s down here. Racaille sighs. He readies his weapons and drops his pride.

“Ruran, can I get a boost?” he shouts over his shoulder.

DM  
Kaerishiel swaps their longsword for their trusty bow. They fire three arrows along with Kwava’s three.

Their arrows are a slow but steady handful of mosquitoes out to kill this vrock on pluck and little else.

Ruran  
Ruran leaps into flight. They swoop past Medomai and the two rangers and up under Racaille’s legs, hoisting him up into attacking range.

Racaille: @Ruran  
“Sweet, thanks,” is all he says before swinging his blades full-force at the vrock.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s steel slices and dices with such fury that it cuts through the vrock’s hide even without a sneaky workaround.

Medomai  
As Ruran flies by, Medomai raps his knuckles against whatever part of them he can reach, “Lucks to you.”

DM  
As Medomai predicted, the vrock does indeed ignore the impervious Racaille and sicc its natural weapons on Ruran. The dhampir’s spell bursts in a gold nimbus from the half-drow’s body. Claws, beak, and talons scythe away in vain.

The spores sapping at Racaille and Kaerishiel sprout tuberous green shoots from their flesh.

Racaille  
Racaille roars out more in primal revulsion than pain and lashes out at the vrock.

DM  
Racaille’s disgust serves him well. His slashing blades sever the vrock’s head from its body. The ten-foot demon comes crashing down with a chamber-shaking thud. The black smoke clears.


	36. Log 36

Medomai: @Racaille  
“You better come here and let me take care of those shoots before you impale yourself on whatever tree’s growing out of your body. You, too,” Medomai says to Kaerishiel.

He hits them with a spell of remove disease and a burst of healing, channelled energy for good measure.

DM  
Meodmai’s divine magic does the trick. The shoots wither and drop from their healed bodies, crumbling to dust before they hit the ground.

Ruran  
While Medomai works, Ruran takes a look at the arcane equipment on the tables.

DM: @Ruran  
A pouch on the table top contains diamond dust. In addition, onyx gemstones, a key component for animating the undead, lie scattered about with pearls for item identification.

Underneath a table, Ruran uncovers a torn parchment bearing charts and calculations written in the language of the drow, which they understand. The formulas calculate the position of the stars in the sky...10,000 years ago. A note near the bottom reads: “EARTHFALL”, underscored five times.

Racaille  
Racaille, healed, joins Ruran at the table. He quietly splits the precious cargo for cash-in while they read the unequivocally less precious parchment.

DM  
Kwava and Kaerishiel join Ruran as well, far more interested in the paper than the loot.

Ruran  
Ruran recoils a half-step back from the parchment.

“They’re studying Golarion’s first extinction event,” says Ruran, their voice barely above a whisper.

Earthfall, when not one but many stars fell upon Golarion and destroyed the first empires of Thassilon and Azlant. Not the stars, technically, but the earthquakes and tidal waves in their wake. 

“That’s what created the Inner Sea in the first place. And started the Age of Darkness.”

Medomai  
“Age of Darkness?” asks Medomai with passing interest, sweeping his share of the loot off the table.

Ruran: @Medomai  
“A thousand years of no sun. There was too much dust in the air.”

Racaille  
“That sounds about right for finishing off a few cataclysm-ravaged empires. But seriously, why are these renegades Hells-bent on bringing on another apocalypse?”

DM  
“Because it wouldn’t be an apocalypse for them,” says Kaerishiel. “The renegades have allied with political factions in the subterranean, predominantly drow city of Zirnakaynin. It’s safe to assume they’d be offered refuge.”

“In exchange for wiping out surface elven kingdoms,” says Kwava. “Most likely clearing territory--”

“We don’t know that,” snaps Kaerishiel. “Or at least...how many countries they’re capable of targeting.”

Ruran  
“I don’t think they know either,” based on the first falling star experiment, “but if they’re studying Earthfall…”

They could affect every continent on Golarion.

Medomai  
“Cheery.”

Racaille  
“We should move. Quickly.”

They might already be too late.

DM  
The circular chamber opens into a long, shadowed hall. Set into the north wall is a pillar of black stone. A flicker of purple light travels up and down hundreds of small, jagged glyphs carved into its length. At its base sits a long, thick stack of paper adhered with fresh, humanoid blood.

The leather-stitched poppet in Ruran’s pocket warms at the sight. Though vile in look and construct, the necromancer feels a cordial tug toward what they recognize as a blood-and-parchment prayer rug.

Ruran  
Ruran swallows and cross the distance. They sink to their knees on the squelching, staining papers.

Racaille: @Ruran  
“Uh, Ruran? What the fuck?”

Ruran: @Racaille  
“This is a shrine to my mom’s patron.” 

And their own.

“I--I have to leave a prayer.”

They can’t offer knowledge--Abraxas prefers the esoteric, forbidden kind--and there’s no way they could offer blood with Kwava and Kaerishiel here.

They clasp their poppet in both hands before them and bow their head.

Medomai  
Medomai swallows, hungrily. But that’s clearly the shrine of a profane, evil deity. Those are the pettiest kind. If he licked the blood off one of those sheets, there’s no doubt the deity would hoist him by his own petard unto a fate worse than death.

Racaille  
Racaille looks from the suddenly religious Ruran to the literally bloodthirsty Medomai. He throws up his hands and joins Kwava and Kaerishiel in their disgusted, inconvenienced corner of the hall. What happened to “move out, quickly”?

Ruran  
Hi, Abraxas, Ruran cackles under their breath. We’re kinda pressed for time, but it seems more than luck finding you here after--well, everything I mentioned earlier. 

If you have any of that secret knowledge for guidance, we’d super appreciate it. Even not, it’s comforting just to have you here like this. So, thanks. Talk to you tomorrow. Love, me.

DM: @Ruran  
Purple light bursts from the jagged glyphs. It suffuses the room and everyone in it in its unnatural glow. As the light fades, the heavy stone doors at the far end of the hall swing open soundlessly. A profane tingle lingers just under everyone’s skin.

Medomai  
“It seems we’ve been blessed with your god’s divine favor.”

Or whatever the profane equivalent is. Medomai nods at the shrine, “My thanks.”

Racaille  
“Right. Thanks,” Racaille shivers. “Moving on.”

 

Finally.

DM  
Through the doors is a chamber unlike any others among the ruins, for this one has been entirely restored. Polished white marble gleams from the walls, carved with dancing, frolicking elves. Along one wall stretches a sparkling pool of crystal clear water and behind it, a gateway made of alabaster shaped into a ring of leaves.

“The elf gate,” Kaerishiel mutters under their breath.

At the center of the pool, a human woman of unknown ethnicity reclines on a massive, floating leaf. Thick black hair in a short, sharp bob splays over the dark, gold-brown arms supporting her head. She cracks open a single, monolid eye of deepest violet.

“Silly me, I didn’t see you there,” she smiles languidly. “And yes, that’s an elf gate, but it’s not the one you’re looking for.”

Racaille: @DM  
“First of all, how would you know? Second of all, there’s another?”

DM: @Racaille  
“Are you always so blunt, Mr. Nameless Chelaxian?”

Medomai: @DM  
“Yes.”

Racaille: @DM  
“No. My apologies. My name’s Racaille, and we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

DM: @Racaille  
The woman laughs as sparkling and bright as the pool beneath her, “So you are. To answer your questions, Racaille, the elf gate behind me now only works with the key carried by Master Nolveniss. He, of course, is in his demi-plane, whose gate lies within the next room.”

Ruran  
“Hi, my name is Ruran. Who are you? And why are you helping us?”

DM: @Ruran  
“I am Ixilano, guardian of this chamber. I ought to attack you, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not feeling great about my odds against a group who’ve come unscathed through the vrock’s lair and received the blessing of Abraxas.”

Medomai  
The name of Ruran’s and presumably Nolveniss’ profane patron isn’t ringing any bells, but Medomai files it away for later.

“What a sound train of thought,” Medomai smiles. “We’ve been short of those for quite some time. My name’s Medomai. Can you tell us anything about this demi-plane?”

DM: @Medomai  
“It’s a recreation of Celwynvian’s past, a kind of holographic museum.”

Moreover, the demiplane is finite in size and doesn’t exist beyond the boundaries of the city itself. Due to its shadow nature, everything is muted. Sounds are dull, colors are drab, and tastes are bland--a city frozen in deep twilight.

“It’s inhabited, populated really, by echo creatures--shades of whoever once inhabited Celwynvian in the days leading up to Earthfall.”

Racaille  
Earthfall. Racaille freezes at the word. It takes him a second to shake off the apocalypse.

“And the gate behind you? Where does that lead?”

DM: @Racaille  
“To Zirnakaynin, of course. Though I imagine it led elsewhere before Nolveniss got his hands on it. Will that be all?”

Ruran  
“I think so. Thanks for your help, Ixilano.”

DM: @Ruran  
“Thanks for not killing me,” Ixilano smiles.

She closes her eyes and leans back in recline upon her giant leaf.

Medomai  
Medomai gives Ixilano a smiling nod in farewell and gestures at the others toward the next room, “After you.”

DM  
Opposite the doors of the massive room stands a towering archway made of shimmering black stone. Unlike the surrounding black stone, the arch’s strangely familiar keystone is pale gray and bears fragments of a spiky set of Thassilonian runes. 

The inside of the archway gives you a rippling glimpse of the twilight city of elves and shadow. Smears of blood along the floor lead up and through the archway into the flickering world beyond.

Racaille  
Racaille squints at the keystone, “That--that’s not--that’s a chip off the Cyphergate, isn’t it?”

DM: @Racaille  
“It makes sense, relatively,” says Kwava.

Both Ruran and Medomai can confirm that Racaille has correctly identified the keystone. Not only that, but they sense its importance in the construction and completion of this window into the past.

Ruran  
“There’s no way to remove it or destroy the archways without powerful magic--more powerful than anything I’m capable of.”

Medomai  
So they can’t trap Nolveniss, no matter. That’d never been the plan anyway.

Medomai approaches the portal and sticks his crossbow through. He pulls it back, inspecting.

DM: @Medomai  
The crossbow remains unharmed, perfectly intact.

Medomai: @Ruran  
“Let’s hope your demon lord’s blessing keeps us safe as well.”

Ruran: @Medomai  
Ruran cackles weakly, hands in their pockets, “I’m just gonna go through now.”

They sidestep through facing and escaping Medomai and his conclusions with a rictus of a grin.

Racaille  
No sense in letting their glass cannon spellcaster be alone in the supernatural renegade hideaway for longer than necessary.

“Here goes nothing,” Racaille walks through the portal.

Medomai  
Medomai looks at the elven rangers, brows raised. So they are just going to stand here and wait while the foreigners go first into the “living” recreation of their history. He shrugs and heads through.

\--/--

DM  
The communication compact in Dhuma’s pocket vibrates with an incoming call not seconds after Kwava and Kaerishiel step through the shadow portal.

Dhuma  
Dhuma sits at a desk beneath a glowing globe of muted light in the Library of Reenai, pouring over a tome: Celestial Bodies Above and Aboleth Magic Below. She jumps at the sudden vibration in her lap. Her knee bangs the underside of the desk.

“Owfuck.”

She pulls out the compact and snaps it open, “Dhuma here.”

DM  
“Good afternoon, Fire Fingers,” Ixilano smiles ingratiatingly from the shadow-rippling surface of the mirror. “You might be interested to know you’ve got some Crying Leaf company coming through--two rangers and three miscellaneous others.”

Dhuma  
Dhuma’s face freezes over. That useless aboleth! “How did they get by you?!”

DM  
“Oh, you know,” Ixilano shrugs, “I weighed my options and came up wanting--there’s a drow with them, by the by. They must be the reason the group received Abraxas’ favor. I can’t imagine Crying Leaf’s bleeding hearts bowing to a demon lord.”

Dhuma  
A few key words in Ixilano’s prattle slip through the block of ice around Dhuma’s head. A drow and a devotee of Abraxas no less, patron of House Azrinae. Had someone betrayed Master Nolveniss? Betrayed the Matron?

Dhuma pinches the bridge of their nose. They shake their head in clearing, “What did Master Nolveniss have to say about all this?”

DM  
“Weeeeell, that’s actually why I’m calling. Would you mind passing the message along with that delightful apprentice’s tact of yours?”

Dhuma  
Dhuma’s jaw drops, “You’re even more useless than I am!”

DM  
“Peace, love ya, gotta go,” Ixilano vanishes with a wink, leaving Dhuma to shit themself if they so please.

Dhuma  
After a few centering breaths and one ungraciously slammed tome later, Dhuma reopens his compact, “Master, we’ve got an emergency.”

He fills Master Nolveniss in with all the details, including their fears of a traitor in their midst. The thought would certainly occur to his master in time, but he’d contacted Nolveniss in the middle of his astronomical observations, during which the master had little patience to spare the politics of his house.

DM  
“Can I not be left to work in a little gods-damned peace?” Nolveniss spits without turning away from his telescope. “Right. Well. Pop pratical. I’m putting you in charge of a shadow pack with Arkaxis as backup. Use them as you see fit, but Dhuma?”

Dhuma  
“Y-yes?”

DM  
“Either get rid of those art-interrupting plebs or die trying because if I’m not allowed to finished my study under your watch, I’ll kill them and then you, myself.”

Dhuma  
“Of course, Master. I’d do it myself.”

DM  
“No. I’d need the closure. Are we clear?”

Dhuma  
“Yes, Master.”

DM  
“That’s my little half-blood! Now you go show them what I’ve taught you, and by the Final Incantation, you’d better fucking make me proud.”


	37. Log 37

DM  
The portal, an arcane veil of time and space, spins your head and wrenches your gut as you step through. Dizzing spires roll up from a forested horizon. Half-familiar buildings complete their outlines from the ruins in your memory. Sharp intakes of breath can be heard from the two rangers behind you.

You know with stone certainty that you stare upon and stand within Celwynvian’s past. Yet every color is dimmed. The urban throng of the crowd of echo elves reliving their ancient hustle and bustle is muted to a whispering murmur.

The shadows here are long and dark. None is darker than that in the sky, a dark blot ringed by a vortex of gray cloud.

Ruran  
Ruran’s jaw drops at the second shadow in the sky. Yes, they should’ve expected it with all that earlier talk about Earthfall, but--

“It’s even bigger than Riddleport’s,” they croak.

Racaille  
Racaille had been thinking the exact same thing. Hearing the thought spoken aloud is enough to rouse him from his wide-eyed, staring stupor. He looks about sharply for any sign of the renegades or allies, “We can’t stand about here.”

They have to find Nolveniss and end this. Now.

Medomai  
Medomai looks around as well. Racaille may not have the low-light vision to pierce these shadows, but the half-elven dhampir sure does.

DM  
To Racaille’s human eyes, all these shadows look the same. Medomai’s, however, detect seven shadowed forms sneaking in your direction. Six are clearly elven in shape, blending among the echoes except for the smoke rising off four of the bodies as though they’d recently escaped a burning building. The seventh is a muscular dog the size of a man who’s inken black coat not only drinks in the light but draws unsuspecting shadows curving toward it.

Medomai: @DM  
“Too late.” 

Medomai taps everyone around him like he’s making a round on a humanoid drum set, “Have a little protection from evil.”

Ruran  
“Thanks, Meda,” says Ruran, rifling through their pack.

They hand Medomai their crystal wand of levitate while their own feet rise up off the ground in the first stirrings of flight, “Here, you might need this.”

Racaille  
Racaille draws his short sword and dagger, giving them a little spin in both hands. He addresses Kwava and Kaerishiel without looking over his shoulder.

“One of you get ready to flank with me.”

DM  
“Got it,” says Kwava, drawing his longsword.

Both rangers cast resist energy on themselves. Kwava steps in beside Racaille. Kaerishiel steps back drawing their bow.

Your shadowy foes, catching your combat preparations, drop all stealth. They charge with muted, whispering steps. Echo elves in the crowd vanish at their touch. From the humanoids, you catch the all too familiar stink of necromancy.

Racaille  
Racaille has nothing against dogs, but that ain’t a dog. That thing is just plain scary. He slashes at the shadow beast.

DM: @Racaille  
All four swipes should hit, but Racaille’s blades pass through the beast’s hide like thin air.

Medomai  
Medomai, levitating fifteen feet over the mass to clash, flings his arms wide over the unharmed dog and necromantic rest.

“Only positive vibes,” he smiles.

Golden, channeled energy burst thirty feet from his body in every direction.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai’s golden channel blasts the two non-smoking shadows into oblivion. Literally. The shadows just fragment apart and dissolve into nothing.

Ruran  
Ruran’s not liking the look of those burning shadows. Fortunately, they’re undead and already animate AND well within their bone-thralling aura.

They point their poppet down at one of the less-harmed shadows from where they float behind Medomai, “Try blocking this.”

DM  
The smoking shadow strains against the wave of Ruran’s necromancy, a futile effort. The wave bowls them over, steeping the blast shadow in Ruran’s aura through and through like an undead teabag.

The blast shadow turns on its fellows with smoking claws. Still woozy from its impromptu betrayal, both attacks miss. 

Its fellows completely miss its betrayal in turn. They lay into Racaille and Kwava with their burning claws and the burning smoke billowing from their bodies.

Kwava grunts in pain, taking the worst the attack in terms of most blows. Racaille receives only one, but it tears through his defenses magical and mundane to leave him with a bloody, burning slash.

The dog lets out a skull-ringing bay. The magicked sound fills Kwava, Medomai, and Ruran with such mind-numbing terror that they drop everything in their hands in preparation of full-speed flight.

Kwava runs away at top speed, breaking into cold sweat and affording the front line of enemies an attack of opportunity. Luckily for his panicked ass, they all miss.

“Shit! Primal fear,” Kaerishiel mutters.

They fire three arrows at the damned dog. All three pass through its inken hide as one would expect from firing into a shadow.

Racaille  
“Kwava! What the fuck, man?”

Racaille’s dismay doesn’t prevent him from laying into a wounded blast shadow.

DM: @Racaille  
Racaille’s blades slash that blast shadow a new one but fail to end its unlife.

Medomai  
Medomai blanches as the world falls away to himself and the dog-bodied god of fear itself. He drops the crystal wand, falling twenty feet, and makes a run for it.

DM: @Medomai  
Pain shoots up Medomai’s shins as he hits the ground. Its not enough to stop him from running off.

Ruran  
Ruran flies, utterly possessed by their fear.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran’s blast shadow runs loyally after them.

DM  
The dog and the blast shadows fall upon Racaille. The bite and claws bounce of Medomai’s protecting nimbus. The burning auras do not.

Kaerishiel, ignoring the dog for now, fires upon the grievously torn blast shadow. Their arrows sink true.

The blast shadow can’t take the heat. It up and fucking explodes out to thirty feet in all directions.

Racaille dodges the blast but Kaerishiel takes the burn.

Racaille  
There’d been no word or magic from Medomai or Ruran. Racaille spares half a second to glance up behind him. 

They’d vanished. Of course.

He roars in exasperation and slashes at the other heavily-wounded blast shadow.

DM  
Racaille tears this second shadow a second new one, and the shadows don’t take to it kindly. Both sets of claws miss. The burning smoke does not. Racaille falls to its incinerating heat.

“Racaille!” roars Kaerishiel.

Its the last sound he hears.

Racaille: @DM  
“MOTHERFUCKER.”

\--/--

DM  
The poisoned tip of a rapier needles through a chink in Kaerishiel’s armor to pierce through the fallen elf’s heart. The lanky drow assassin has already applied the same finishing touch to the half-burned Chelaxian. They roll up to their full, cloaked and hooded height, aiming their toothy grin, the only visible part of their face, at Dhuma.

“I feel that went smashingly, don’t you?” says Arkaxis.

Dhuma  
“Two shadows evaporated, one blast shadow obliterated, one blast shadow mentally hijacked, and three targets lost,” Dhuma counts off on his fingers, “is smashing?”

DM  
“Come now, Dhuma. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Arkaxis bends to one side, petting the absolute shadow unit of a good boy. “Think of it this way: two down, three to go.”

Dhuma  
Two down, three to go. Two down, three to g--

“I suppose they’ll have lost Abraxas’ blessing by the time we find them.”

DM  
“If they haven’t already up and thrown in the towel. Let’s leave the bodies here. Encouragement, as it were.”

Dhuma  
“They might be the vengeant type.”

DM  
“So they’ll come find us--even better.”

\--/--

DM  
When the fear wears off, the three survivors and one undead tagalong find themselves cowering under a table in the comfort of the Fluted Goblet, an abandoned inn and tavern.

Ruran  
As the fear dissipates, Ruran takes a headcount.

“OH MY GODS, WE ABAND--” the whack of their head against the underside of the table sends their head spinning in a burst of stars.

Medomai  
Medomai blanches paler than even his typical ghastly white, “We have to go back.”

He crawls out from under the table and cracks his knuckles.

“Alright, who needs healing?”

Ruran  
Ruran climbs out after Medomai, “Wait a sec.”

They pat around their lab coat pockets, sweeping for their poppet. Ruran cringes. They must’ve dropped it in flight.

Ruran lays both hands on non-smoking parts of the blast shadow’s arms and shoulders. THey close their eyes, taking a deep breath. They could cast without it, but not without a great deal of concentration.

Black, necromantic magic sludges down the line of their arms into the shadow. Its aura warms with a faint golden glow.

“Ok! Your channel should heal it too, now, but not for long.”

Medomai  
“This’ll only take a second.”

True to his word, the blast of golden light blazing through the tavern winks out in moments. 

“And let me reset our protections as well,” Medomai claps a hand on Ruran and Kwava’s shoulders.

They couldn’t have left Racaille and Kaerishiel for long, but it’d been long enough to expend the duration of his first spell and Abraxas’ blessing as well. It’s not much consolation that the twilight remains outside the window. Time and space here appear to be wrinkled at best.

DM  
“Thanks,” says Kwava, dusting himself off. “Follow me.”

He throws open the door and runs back toward the others. Echo elves unfortunate to cross him vanish from his path.

Ruran  
“You go first,” says Ruran, keeping their hands on the blast shadow.

Shadows snake across the room. They wrap around the blast shadow, infusing it with the fabric of the plane and its strength.

Medomai  
Medomai gives the two a farewell, two-finger salute and runs after Kwava.

Ruran  
Ruran flies out from the tavern in their wake. Their empowered shadow bounds down the street below them.

DM  
You can’t miss the two bodies in the street ahead. Even the echo elves sense their presence, skirting their fallen outlines.

Kwava draws up short, but there’s no time to mourn. The two blast shadows and the dog of fear charge out from an alleyway. 

Despite the heat of battle charging upon you, you can’t help noticing that one of the echo elves is curiously still compared to their ethereal brethren. Then they vanish, completely.

The shadow dog opens its shadow-fanged maw. It lets out its skull-ringing, mind-numbing bray. This time, only Kwava turns tail and flees.

Medomai  
“Gods damn it,” Medomai flings out his hands at the shadows. “Eat shit and die.”

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai’s blast of channeled energy blazes into everyone, but only the two shadows take damage.

Ruran  
Ruran flies over the area they’d previously fled in search of their poppet. In the meantime, they sic their blast shadow on the first of its fellows.

DM  
The empowered shadow claws into its former buds. They shriek in protest and claw back, naturally.

Ruran locates and retrieves their poppet without incurring the wrath of the suspiciously vanished echo elf, which might also be construed as suspicious.

The shadow dog snarls and snaps at Medomai, but his protective nimbus leaves it with nothing but bark.

Medomai  
“Let’s try that again, shall we?”

Channel energy, round two.

DM: @Medomai  
This second round nearly obliterates the more heavily wounded of the blast shadows.

Ruran  
With their poppet now in hand, Ruran grins mirthlessly. They aim the tiny skin doll at their blast shadow.

“Unhallowed be thy blows.”

DM  
The blast shadow’s claws sharpen with unholy honed energy. It slices into the wounded shadow, ripping it through so hard that the gods-damned shadow explodes into flames onto Ruran above and Medomai below.

The blast radius is too wide to avoid, but Ruran and Medomai manage to miss the worst of the heat.

The remaining blast shadow claws into its traitorous, empowered fellow while the dog futilely snaps at Medomai.

Familiar footsteps come racing in from behind. 

“Sorry, guys,” Kwava pants.

Medomai  
“Not at all--you’re just in time to see the magic happen,” Medomai flings out his arms.

DM: @Medomai  
The golden blast blasts the blast shadow but fails to blast the blast shadow out of existence.

Ruran  
That blast shadow’s nearly done for, if Ruran’s own is any indication. The dog’s around, but the dog’s useless thanks to Medomai’s protection. There’s still one elf unaccounted for.

Maybe they’re a spirit, maybe not. Either way, they’re invisible--a problem for everyone. Except the sightless undead.

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

Ruran, eyes wet, points their poppet at Racaille’s corpse. It shambles to its feet and throws itself at the unseen elf in a dead embrace.

DM: @Ruran  
Racaille’s corpse, seemingly powered by the raw venom of vengeance itself, traps the elf, a drow, in its dead embrace and dispels their invisibility.

DM  
“Gods,” Kwava chokes at the sight.

He draws his bow, however, and shoots three arrows point-blank at the elf in Racaille’s arms.

Ruran’s blast shadow rips into the final shadow. It explodes, catching Medomai, the grappled drow, and the shadow dog in its flames.

The drow hisses at the burn. They struggle to escape, but Racaille’s dead grasp is surer than even the flames of Hells.

Medomai  
Medomai ignores the dog jumping on him as one might a naught puppy. He unsheathes a simple dagger and approaches the grappled drow.

“This,” he grins, “is for Racaille.”

He slashes the drow’s throat, mercifully. Racaille had definitely been a revenge kind of guy but a mercifully vengeant one, Medomai likes to think.

DM: @Medomai  
The drow bleeds, falling slack in Racaille’s grasp. The dog runs off with a piteous but prescient whine. The drow dies in moments.

Racaille’s vengeance fulfilled and Ruran’s spell expired, his corpse also falls slack.

Medomai: @DM  
Medomai catches Racaille. He lowers him to the ground, gently, and closes his sightless eyes.

“Rest now, dear friend,” he sniffs.

Medomai wipes a sleeve across his face, clearing both makeup and tears. It’s all the fluid he’s going to waste. Literally.

The dhampir pounces on the fallen drow. He licks up all the leaking, nourishing blood. It’s a very late brunch.

Ruran  
Ruran sinks to their knees beside Racaille. A well of tears splatter his face and neck. They could bring him back. Kind of. It wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t even look like Racaille without constant upkeep.

“Goodbye, Racaille. We’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.”

DM  
Kwava crouches down beside Ruran, the side furthest from Medomai feeding on the drow corpse. He gives their shoulder an awkward pat.

“He was a good man. A good friend.”

Ruran: @DM  
“And Kaerishiel.”

DM: @Ruran  
“A good coworker.”

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran’s shoulders shake. A strangled laugh escapes their throat.

“We were coworkers with Racaille, too.”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava says nothing. His face splinters with the slightest smile. Though the sound is weak and rusted, he laughs, tears streaming down his cheeks.


	38. Log 38

Dhuma  
Arkaxis is dead. The shadow pack is down to one dog. It’s all on Dhuma. The ifrit buries her head in the shadow mastiff’s inken black fur. Useless. She should’ve gone out there with Arkaxis.

Instead, Dhuma’s holed up in the windowseat of an ancient Azlant’s diplomatic residence. The wizard, though a pale shade of their former self, still bears some resemblance to Ixilano’s human form. Ixilano...that lazy-ass aboleth must be anc--

Focus! Focus. Those three survivors are headed to the observatory where Master Nolveniss is. Dhuma’s got to get them off his trail, at least long enough for the master to finish his notes. They’d already seen Earthfall plenty of times, but the demi-plane always looped over too quickly.

Oof. The shadow mastiff uses Dhuma’s preoccupation to climb into her lap. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Ok, so there’s no way Master Nolveniss can spare the magic for another shadow pack right now.”

He’d probably kill her himself if she mentioned it. Him. Self. 

Dhuma’s hand drops from her nose, landing on the dog. It jumps from her lap with a start. Yeah, it’s safer if it runs off anyway.

Dhuma stands. Her flickering hair whips faster than usual. She’s got an idea.

\--/--

DM  
Standing in the center of a small, well-kept park is an imposing building made of black and white marble carved with celestial patterns. Four low domes adorn the building’s corners. A tower rises from its heart to form a larger domed structure. Three gilded telescopes protrude from its balconies.

“Be on your guard,” says Kwava, casting barkskin on himself.

Medomai  
“Of course, of course,” says Medomai, finishing up his makeup and tucking his kit away. “Ruran, would you mind bringing our new undead accomplice over here.”

Ruran  
“O-ok.”

Medomai wouldn’t eat an undead or drink its blood. Surely. Ruran sends the blast shadow to stand in front of Medomai.

Medomai: @Ruran  
Medomai lays a hand on the shadow’s shoulder. In flows the muscle-bulking magic he’d last used on Serem.

When he’s finished, he touches everyone with protection from evil.

“Now we’re ready.”

DM  
Inside the gilded doors of the observatory sprawls a grand entry hall with a richly woven carpet running from the doors to a massive silver orrery, a model of the sun and planets, quietly spinning in time.

Four drow soldiers and their captain stand around the orrery. Their heads snap toward the newcomers. Two soldiers draw crossbows, two draw rapiers. The captain draws a wickedly spiked flail.

Ruran  
Ruran points their poppet at the captain, “Have you seen a bone shake?”

DM  
Ethereal strings shoot out from Ruran’s poppet. They slip through the captain’s skin and wrap around their spine. The captain shrieks, thoroughly shook and rattled.

Ruran’s newly swole blast shadow tears into one soldier with its burning claws.

Kwava  
Kwava fires three arrows at the captain. Only one hits, but it’s enough to sink them where they stand.

Medomai  
“I’ll give you the deal of a lifetime. Get out now, or end up like your captain,” says Medomai, squeezing his crossbow trigger as he gestures.

The bolt flies toward the wounded soldier.

DM  
The wounded soldier falls beside their captain. The three remaining soldiers exchange uncertain glances. One chin jerks in a stiff, reluctant nod. Two others follow.

The three run past you out from the observatory and into the park.

“Looks like we convinced them,” Kwava remarks dryly.

Medomai: @Kwava  
“Nothing like a few diplomatic deaths to do the trick,” Medomai crouches down by the captain’s diplomatically dead body, “Don’t worry. Just looking for loot.”

Ruran  
“Do we have time for that? Our entrance might not have gone completely undetected.”

Medomai  
“I suppose you’re right. Just be sure the EBI reimburses our haste, won’t you Kwava?”

DM  
“Trust me, we’re getting all kinds of pay for this suicide mission.”

There’s no direct path to the central tower. Two doors stand a the end of the hall, both at forty-five degree angles. The one opens to a dark, domed chamber.

A forested mural covers the walls. Painted stars glow from the rounded ceiling above. Shackled to the table lies a flaxen-haired drow stripped of all weapons and armor.

Al  
Al’s honey gold eyes first widen then narrow to honey gold slits, “What new trick is this, Nolveniss?”

It’s difficult to snarl with a parched throat and broken lips. Al gives up the effort in seconds. His head drops back down to the table. He squeezes his eyes shut, “Nevermind. I don’t care. Do you worst.”

All the Azrinae’s tortures ended the same anyway.

Ruran  
“We’re not with Nolveniss,” says Ruran, rifling through their pack.

They retrieve their waterskin and slosh it around by the drow’s pointed ear, “Can I give you some water?”

Al: @Ruran  
Al cracks a single eye open, “That’s not code for ‘let the drowning games begin’, is it?”

Medomai  
“He really pulled a number on you, didn’t he?” says Medomai, scanning the room for keys. “Why are you here? Like this?”

Al  
“That is a long and boring story, which, if I tried to recount now, would definitely leave us all surprised by the sudden return of the jailer--he’s got the key, by the way.”

DM  
Speaking of the troglodyte devil, there he appears. The reptilian jailer hisses at the four intruders. He charges from the doorway, barrelling down upon you with his stomach-roiling stench.

Medomai and the undead are immune to the stink, but everyone else is justifiably sickened.

Ruran  
Ruran claps one hand over their nose and mouth. The other points their poppet at the jailer. 

“Bone shakes,” they mumble through their palm.

DM: @Ruran  
Despite the necromancer’s condition, their magic is as effective as ever. The troglodyte screams and hisses in spine-jerking pain.

Their blast shadow, still swole af, tears at the jailer with its burning claws. Searing heat blasts from its pores.

Its claws glance off the jailer’s grimy gray scales, but its burning smoke aura brings the heat.

Medomai  
Medomai stands back from the burning undead. He fires his crossbow at the troglodyte from afar.

DM  
Medomai’s bolt chunks solidly into the troglodyte’s arm.

Beside Medomai and Ruran, Kwava fires three arrows at the troglodyte. They lodge into the jailer’s brain, each one deeper than the last.

The troglodyte drops dead with a metallic thunk of a heavy mace and jingle of keys.

Al  
Sweet Areshkagal, they’d really done it. Al glances at the strange pack with watering eyes, unable to suppress the throat-choking lump of hope in his throat. He doesn’t dare breathe a word and change their minds.

Medomai  
Medomai crouches down by the body. He looks for valuables while unhooking the key ring from the troglodyte’s belt.

DM: @Medomai  
The defunct jailer’s got nothing but a heavy mace and patchwork armor on his person.

Medomai: @DM  
Nevermind.

“Ruran, catch!” Medomai tosses up the keys.

Ruran  
Ruran fumbles them in their hands, half-full with poppet, but manages to catch them. They make introductions as they unlock the four cuffs, “I’m Ruran, this is Medomai, and that’s Kwava--there you go!”

Al  
Al pushes up slowly, head spinning. He massages his wrists and ankles.

“Thank you,” he sniffs. “I’m Al.”

Medomai  
“A pleasure. You’re welcome to stick with us in this place, but we’re on a rather dangerous mission. It’s already proven fatal to two of our party, as it were. You wouldn’t happen to have any gear to even your odds, would you?”

Al: @Medomai  
Gear. A word from a lifetime ago. Al grips the edge of the table and fixes his eyes solidly on the pale half-elf before he spirals into memories.

“I think...I think Lagrozan took it into that room,” he points at the door, still ajar, from whence the jailer came.

Ruran  
Ruran holds a trail ration out to the rescued prisoner, “We really should get going, but you can eat on the road if you want.”

Al  
Al snatches up the ration before he can stop himself. He shoves the whole thing into his mouth.

“I cou kith you, all off you,” he says, spraying crumbs.

DM  
“Save the celebrations for later,” says Kwava. “We’ve got to find Nolveniss.”

Al: @DM  
Al freezes in mind-chew. Crumbs fall from his dry and drier mouth.

“Wha,” he coughs and chokes out the ration, “what do you want with Nolveniss?”

Medomai  
“We’re here to kill him.”

Ruran  
“Or bring him back, maybe.”

Eviana and the EBI could probably get more use out of that than Nolveniss’ corpse. Which, in all honesty, they’d probably leave to rot in the demi-plane.

Al  
“NO! No. I’ve dealt with Nolveniss before, and I can only recommend that first option. That, I’m happy to help with.”

Though to be fair, Al’s barely functional without his gear, much less his spells.

DM  
“We’ll see what happens,” says Kwava, “but if his lackeys’ response has been any indication, Nolveniss is gonna force our hand.”

Kwava turns toward the door, “Shall we?”

The door opens into a vast chamber with forty-foot ceilings. The far side of the room holds a balcony ten feet up whose glass windows offer a clear view of the perpetually twilight forest. Opposite the balcony, three stairs wind the tower to silver doors carved with planets and stars.

At the center of the room, right on the floorboards, sits a heap of loot. Al identifies his amongst the mithral shirts, enchanted longbows, and enchanted gloves.

Medomai  
“Well that’s not suspicious at all,” says Medomai, searching the tower for signs of enemies.

That much treasure could not have been left unguarded.

DM: @Medomai  
A whiff of smoke draws Medomai’s eye toward the columns above the balcony. Green scales cover the powerful limbs and wings of a languorously roosting dragon. The dragon’s yellow, reptilian-slit eyes sweep the lot of you.

Roosting up on top of the balcony is a terrible beast. Green  
scales cover its powerful limbs and wings, and an oversized  
horn sits at the end of its snout. The dragon looks down at  
you, a vapor of sickly green wafting from its flaring nostrils.

The dragon yawns and stretches up, cat-like if a cat had wings, “Finally. I’ve been waiting on breakfast for hours--I suppose that makes you...brunch.”

Ruran  
Ruran gulps. That height is gonna be a problem. As is the whole dragon thing.

Ruran flies up reluctantly. Up is closer to the dragon, but it’s also where there’s more maneuverability.

As for the blast shadow, they advise it to ready an attack just in case the dragon comes swooping down.

Medomai  
Medomai lets out a low whistle and steps up to the front line with the shadow but outside its burning aura. He points up at the dragon. Dragons are synonymous with magic, aren’t they?

“I dispel thee!”

If there even is any magical shielding on the dragon.

DM: @Medomai  
There is, actually. An ethereal arrow shoot from Medomai’s pointed hand. It audibly crashes into the aura over the dragon’s chest. Whatever spell was there shatters into a thousand vanishing shards.

DM  
“Good call,” Kwava says flatly.

He shoots three, entirely physical arrows up at the dragon. Only one hits, but it tears off a chunk of green-scaled skin.

The dragon hisses but shrugs their nicked shoulder. Their mighty wings beat gusts of whipping air down at the group as the dragon takes flight. Their maw opens wide. Out spews a forty-foot cone of bubbling green acid.

Al avoids the brunt of the acid, but Medomai, Kwava, and the blast shadow get showered in the flesh-melting spray.

Al  
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” says Al, skipping and jumping over the acid pools to get to his equipment.

He suits up as fast as possible. It’s only when his hands close around the handle of a sickle each that his heart descends from his throat back into his chest.

Ruran  
Ruran winces at the acid spray. They point their poppet at the dragon, “Let’s soften you up a bit.”

An accursing ray of sickly gray-green shoots from the mouth of the poppet.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran’s curse sinks into the dragon, twisting fibers of muscle and bone.

Medomai  
“Ouch.”

Yeah, no, that was a killer hit. Medomai claps his hands together in front of his chest, “I’m on healer duty--ya’ll take care of the dragon.”

DM  
“Scatter!”

Kwava runs farther back on the back line and shoots another three arrows at the dragon. Two pierce their scaled hide.

The dragon roars and looses another blast of acid. Their bubbling green acid spews all over Medomai, Al, and the blast shadow.

Al  
Al roars in pain and a seed of magic-touched rage. He levitates up from the ground and right in the dragon’s face.

Ruran  
“Al!”

This is bad, but there’s almost nothing Ruran can do. Desperate measures, it is.

Ruran reaches into their pocket for a lump of wax. They shape the clay into a crude replica of the dragon in front of them.

Medomai  
Medomai heeds Kwava’s words. He runs to corner behind a staircase and sets his fingertips over his sternum. Healing energy surges through him.

DM  
Kwava shoots his arrows. This time, all three sink into the cursed dragon.

The dragon shrieks, but it has a new target now, Al levitating right before them. The dragon strikes at Al with the viciously sharp horn on their head and two sets of talons.

The dragon’s massive horn gores through Al’s side, but he dodges the two claw swipes.

Al  
Al crosses his sickles in front of him and lets out a savage roar. He slices at the dragon in front of him.

DM: @Al  
Hooo-ly fuck. Al unleashes a barrage of flashing steel worthy of a full squad of drow soldiers. Yes, the dragon’s been weakened by the curse, but even an uncursed beast would be ill-set against Al’s enraged savagery.

The dragon falls to the floor in green-scaled pieces.


	39. Log 39

Ruran  
Ruran, slack-jawed, lowers their poppet, staring at the back of Al’s golden-haired head.

Medomai  
Medomai ducks out from behind his staircase at the dragon’s chamber-quaking fall. He nods up at Al’s newly armored back. Nicely done.

He meanders toward the loot pile. 

“Ruran, want these gloves?” he calls up at them.

Ruran: @Medomai  
“Ah, yeah, sure, thanks.”

They float down to the ground and accept the gloves from Medomai.

Medomai: @Al  
Medomai hands over the gloves then looks back up at Al, “You want some healing, buddy?”

Al  
“I could use it, thanks.”

Al touches down lightly onto the acid-spewn floor. The corner of his mouth quirks into a bemused smile. Rather fortunate the dragon’s breath had missed the loot.

DM  
“Actually, this one’s on me,” says Kwava, passing around healing potions.

DOOM. No sooner have you placed the vials to your lips than you catch the echoing shut of a heavy door. Shuffling footsteps echo down from the heights of the winding stair.

Dhuma  
Dhuma, glamoured as his much taller, thinner, and follicly well-behaved master, looks down over the railing.

“Damn! You scamps really killed my fucking dragon,” Dhuma snarks Nolveniss-like despite the sweat between his palms and the rail.

Ruran  
“Your dragon? Wait, you-you’re Nolveniss?”

Al: @Ruran  
Al had frozen at the familiar voice. At the name, his head tilts up in minute jerks. There’s no mistaking that sadistic, clownish grin.

Despite his fatigue, Al explodes into a new, roaring rage. His two dragon-bloodied sickles enter his hands.

Medomai  
“Easy,” says Medomai to the former captive, enforcing the suggestion with commanding magic.

He looks back up at the master of the demi-plane, eyes narrowed to black slits over his easy smile. 

“So we did,” he calls up the echoing tower. “We’re more than happy to send you off with the same regards...unless you have a reason for us not to.”

Dhuma: @Medomai  
Dhuma holds up the gemstone key he’s “borrowed” from his master’s room, “I have this little do-hicky that apparently only I have the magic and brainpower to operate. Oh, right, because that’s how I designed it.”

DM: @Dhuma  
“I hate to say it,” says Kwava, voice low for only his allies to hear, “but Nolveniss is more valuable to the EBI alive than dead, especially if he’s not lying about the gate key.”

Al  
Al, frozen under Medomai’s spell, can only let out strangled roars of protest. But the hold is giving him time to think. 

He’d have to wait out this EBI, but he could kill Nolveniss later. As long as he keeps up with the bastard mage’s location, Nolveniss would never be safe from him. Nolveniss would get his just a little later than usual.

Al takes Medomai’s magicked advice to heart and settles down.

Ruran  
Well. This is working out better than expected, but Ruran’ll take it.

“I guess you should probably float down here so we can arrest you properly.”

Dhuma: @Ruran  
Dhuma coughs, “Nah, I’ll walk. Lemme enjoy my last ten flights of freedom.”

The truth is, Dhuma doesn’t have the inborn magic of noble house drow like his master which would permit him to levitate at his convenience.

Medomai  
“That’s fair and only a minor inconvenience, so have at it, then.”

Medomai releases the commanding suggestion binding Al. There’s no need to remind their new ally to be on his best behavior--there are plenty more spell slots where that came from.

DM: @Dhuma  
Once “Nolveniss” has made his way down to the others, Kwava claps him in cuffs. He lists off the arrested drow’s rights on the way back to the gate as the combination of ancient elven accumulations and EBI bureaucracy has created many.   
You stop back at the Fluted Goblet where you’ve placed Racaille and Kaerishiel’s bodies for safekeeping. Between Ruran, Medomai, Al, and Kwava--mostly Al and Kwava, you’re able to carry the bodies with you.

Kwava’s only four-fifths of the way through of Nolveniss’ rights by the time everyone emerges from the other side of the portal. Ixilano, still lounging on her leaf, cracks open an eye to look on amusedly as well as pointedly in Dhuma’s case.

Al  
Al doesn’t think much of the somewhat unsettling human’s smirk at Nolveniss. The man didn’t appear to be a great boss even by Zirnakaynin’s dirt-low standards.

Dhuma  
Dhuma pulls a face at the aboleth over Agent Kwava’s shoulder and not just because it’s what Nolveniss would do. There’s no doubt in her mind that Ixilano can see straight through her disguise. All sources on aboleth magic imply or outright state it’s supernaturally inconvenient for everyone except the user.

DM  
“Nolveniss...Nolveniss,” Kwava repeats short of breath at the end of the rights list, “shut down this demi-plane.”

Ruran  
This is the moment of truth--whether Nolveniss actually means to come peaceably and help them fight off a second Earthfall and apocalypse or if he’s about to call in his allies, maybe including Ixilano, and make a last stand. 

Ruran grips the poppet in their pocket just in case.

Medomai  
Medomai’s eyes flick from Nolveniss to Ixilano and back. Ixilano had mentioned poor odds before. The numbers have changed. The question is, are they feeling lucky?

Al  
Al’s hands casually drift toward the handles of his sickles. Come on, punks. Make my day.

Dhuma  
Dhuma squashes the urge to vomit deep down into the bowels from whence it came. Their sweat-slicked palms squelches around the gate key. Nolveniss is never gonna let this go, but he’s sure gonna get all the time he wants to study Earthfall.

Dhuma’s cuffed arms raise the deep purple gemstone magickally inscribed from the inside with the Thassilonian rune for “portal”. They hold it in line with the gate’s gray keystone.

“Close.”

DM  
The key and keystone flare with a soft, purple light. The rippling light and shadows within the archway fade, bleeding away into a wall of mundane stone. The door to the Armageddon Echo has closed, locking away all souls still within the demi-plane.

“Great job,” Ixilano calls out from her leaf in the next room. “Maybe now I can finally get some shut eye around here.”

Ruran  
Ruran looks from Nolveniss to Al to Medomai to Kwava, their grip around their poppet loosening as their smile grows from cautious to wonderstruck, “We...we did it!”

Medomai  
Medomai smiles back, arms wide open, “Get in here.”

They haven’t put an end to the threat of a second Earthfall, not by a longshot. They might’ve dealt a massive blow to the renegades in stopping this branch of apocalypse studies, but the renegades have proved a deep investment in this--too deep to just give up. Best case scenario, they’ve slowed the renegades down enough to strike a deeper, more critical blow to the heart.

Medomai’s gaze travels over Ruran’s shoulder to the arrested Nolveniss. He could be the key to their critical strike should he remain cooperative. If he didn’t...now they had Al.

Al  
Al goes in for the hug more out of shock than an onset affection for his rescuers. Nolveniss Azrinae, compliant? It has to be a ruse, a trap.

“Nolveniss wants to be caught. He’s using you,” Al whispers for only the huggers’ ears.

DM: @Al  
“The EBI will be using him soon enough,” Kwava whispers back.

He steps away from the group hug and picks Racaille’s corpse back onto his back. As you pass through Ixilano’s room, he stops by the edge of their pool, “Your master’s been arrested. You’re no longer bound to his service. We can take you back with us to Crying Leaf.”

Both eyes open, Ixilano shakes her head with an all-knowing smile, “This leafy sofa isn’t gonna lounge on itself. Besides, I have a feeling we’ll meet again. You take care now.”

Dhuma  
“Sure thing, you backstabbing bitch,” says Dhuma, only half-pretending.

Fortunately, their wrists have been cuffed in the front, so they’re free to give Ixilano a whole damn flock of birds as Agent Kwava takes them away.

DM  
You make it back to Crying Leaf without incident. Eviana and the elves receive you with both joy and solemnity. “Nolveniss” is taken to a dungeon cell while the rest of you are taken to the infirmary for care and the debrief.  
“We can’t thank you enough for your service and sacrifice,” says Eviana, tear stains on her haggard face. “Tonight, we hold a wake for all those who’ve given their lives to keep all of Golarion safe.”

Ruran  
That sounds exactly how Serem and Racaille would’ve wanted to go out. Ruran’s too choked up to mention it, however. They give Eviana a tearful, grateful nod.

Medomai  
Medomai’s finger traces the top of the latest loot box from the EBI.

“They will...not be forgotten,” he murmurs without looking up.

No. He swears it.

Al  
Al opens the wooden chest in his lap. Gold--cold, hard, and gleaming. Gold doesn’t fill the jagged void Nolveniss and, to be fair, his own noble house have left inside him. No, there’s only one thread that can stitch the hole. Al snaps the chest shut.

“Director Eviana, does the EBI plan to continue their efforts against these drow machinations?”

DM: @Al  
“Yes, of course. Our work is far from finished.”

Al: @DM  
“Then I’d like to enlist with a special interest in Zirnakaynin intelligence. Aldinach of House Vonnarc, at your service.”

DM  
“Welcome, Aldinach.”

\--/--

DM  
The wake begins at its soberest, the elven-style burials of Racaille and Kaerishiel. The bodies are lowered into sacred forest ground inside wicker caskets. The elves sing a dirge and walk in a mournful dance on the way back to the village.

There, the drinking begins. There’s a toast to the departed followed by increasingly less sober and more ribald toasts as the rounds of ritual drinking take their toll. The musicians strike up a lively tune around the fifth toast and dancing follows.

There are those who don’t participate. Shalelu and Giseil can be seen drowning their sorrows by the bottle under one of the long buffet tables. Kwava stands apart from the dancing by a different table, still nursing his cup from the first round.

Ruran  
Ruran approaches Kwava, swaying and sloshing. It’d taken six cups to tackle the grief of the burial. Ruran downs their seventh before saying a word to the elf.

“Hey.”

DM: @Ruran  
“Hey,” says Kwava, brow quirked in question.

Ruran: @DM  
“Would you...would you like...like...like to dance?”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava knocks back the rest of his wine and sets the cup down on the table. He holds an arm out to Ruran, smiling bittersweetly, “Yeah. I think I would.”

Medomai  
Medomai watches Ruran and Kwava’s drunken stumble around the dance floor in bemusement. He opens his mouth, his tongue set to jab...there’s no one by his side.

Medomai closes his mouth. He searches the crowd, his eyes finally settling on Al. He swipes a cup off the table, having accepted none of his own, and goes to lean beside the strapping, gold-touched drow.

“Hey.”

Al  
Al’s head snaps up from the arrangement of cups, other people’s cups, that he’s created. He’s only a few glasses short of the heart of Zirnakaynin.

“Hey. Medomai, right?”

Medomai: @Al  
“Call me Meda.”

Al: @Medomai  
“Meda...that’s cute.”

Medomai: @Al  
“I try.”

Al: @Medomai  
“I can tell,” says Al, his eyes taking in the unusually pale elf from his artfully painted face to his magickally immaculate boots. “Do you...want to get out of here?”

Medomai: @Al  
“Well, if it doesn’t take you from your cups,” Medomai shrugs playfully.

Al: @Medomai  
Al stands. He sweeps an arm across the table, knocking all of Zirnakaynin down with a ravenous grin, “Let’s go, Meda.”

\--/--

Dhuma  
Down in the lightless corner of his dungeon cell, Dhuma hugs his glamoured knees to his chest. He can’t drop his stupid, assumed identity--who knows who’s watching, even here.

Dhuma bangs his head back against the wall. His eyes prick and burn...but that’s not what Nolveniss would do.

His mouth crooks into twisted rictus. Those are the sounds of music and dance filtering down through the roots of the building. He opens his mouth into roaring, offkey song:

“My Bonnie lies over the ocean,  
My Bonnie lies over the sea,  
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,  
O bring back my Bonnie to me!”

Dhuma pushes to his feet. He throws himself against the bars of the cell, shouting the chorus at the top of his lungs.


	40. Log 40

DM  
With the loss of Nolveniss and the demi-plane, discord spreads like the plague through the renegade ranks. The EBI does its damnedest to track down and eliminate the stragglers. Meanwhile, the elves of Crying Leaf have begun the long task of restoring the ruins of Celwynvian.

A week after the shutdown of the gate to the demi-plane, Eviana calls Medomai and Ruran to the familiar EBI’s briefing hall. Kwava and the EBI’s latest recruit, Al, sit on either side of her. As Kwava’s violet eyes meet Ruran’s, his mouth curves in the slightest smile, but he keeps it professional.

Ruran  
A weak cackle escapes Ruran’s throat, the hazy memories of their horrifically-coordinated dancing still hot and ripe in the back of their mind. They hadn’t taken any further steps since that flailing fiasco, going so far as to avoid Kwava all of this week. 

But there’s no ill will in that smile. That helps. Still, Ruran can’t raise their eyes off the tabletop as they take a seat.

Medomai  
Medomai pulls out the seat beside Ruran. His resting smile doesn’t change per say as he meets Al’s gaze, but the combination gives it a sphinx-like, secret-hoarding effect. Perhaps Al would be as interested in his secrets tonight as he was this morning. And the night before. And the morning before that. Ad nauseum.

Al  
Meda, that teasing twink. Al shakes his head, but the quick lick of his lips gives him away. He clears his throat and mind with a cough.

Eviana has news. The best news he’s heard in ages. He shifts in his chair as he struggles to stay bottled and seated.

DM  
Eviana wastes no time. As soon as everyone’s seated, she launches straight into a dry but less-haggard-than-normal spiel: 

“The elf gate in the ruins still functions--both of them. The second, of course, leads to Zirnakaynin. Thanks to intelligence from Al and Nolveniss, the EBI is in a unique position of infiltration.”

Eviana nods at Al. This is, after all, his plan.

Al: @DM  
Al leaps to his feet. He paces the room as he lays it all out for his new allies:

“The leader of the renegades is Allevrah Azrinae. Apart from her name, we know next to nothing about her.”

According to the captured Nolveniss, she’d come from some tiny town on the surface but rose through the ranks of House Azrinae as a priest of Abraxas. 

“In true Zirnakaynin fashion, she raised herself to Matron of the House by offing old Simovara. That’s when the renegade surface excursions began. Her forces are allied with House Azrinae AND House Vonnarc.”

He pauses to let the point sink in as practiced but just can’t help himself. Al blows right on by, talking, walking, and gesticulating.

“We need more information about Allevrah, her plans, and her allies to rout this threat once and for all because the EBI sure as fuck doesn’t have the resources to storm a noble house of Zirnakaynin. That’s where I come in.”

Yes, sure, Al had been ousted from his own house and delivered as a torture plaything to House Azrinae in a goodwill powerplay, but if there’s anything Zirnakaynin loves, it’s a powerplay. “The greatest powerplay would be for me to return to my house with associates,” he spreads his arms out toward Kwava, Ruran, and Meda, “and a torture plaything of my own.”

Medomai: @Al  
“Nolveniss? The mage House Vonnarc’s ally Allevrah trusted enough to put in charge of her second apocalypse research? That’s objectively outrageous. Try that homecoming in any surface city and you’ll be assassinated before you sit down at the table.”

Al: @Medomai  
“Any surface city, sure. Zirnakaynin’s an entirely different beast. Assassins would stay their hands out of sheer respect of the balls.”

Medomai: @Al  
Medomai breaks down into shoulder-shaking chuckles. Al has him there. And all of the EBI, apparently.

Ruran  
“Won’t House Azrinae try to help Nolveniss escape?”

Al: @Ruran  
Al stifles his scoffing snort. Ruran may appear drow, if shorter and softer, but they’d never lived in the big city--he’d read their file.

“House Azrinae would sooner assassinate Nolveniss than stoop to help him. His failure and imprisonment is a mark of shame on the house. He’ll be safer with us than anywhere in the Darklands.”

Medomai  
Huh. Rather more dramatic than expected. Time to scale back down to earth, “There’s only one gate key. What happens if it’s stolen?”

DM  
“We’ve accounted for that,” says Eviana. “And no, we can’t risk it. If you choose to go through the portal with Al, Kwava, and Nolveniss, you’ll go without the key.”

The EBI would open the elf gate and close it behind the group. But only because their intelligence claims there’s another gate in Zirnakaynin, “One that opens directly to the EBI’s hidden city of Kyonin. As well as intel on Allevrah, it’s imperative this gate is found and neutralized--from the other side.”

Ruran  
Their claiming intelligence has got to be Nolveniss. He has every reason to lie, trick them into going and getting killed even if it means getting killed himself. Then again, he’d given up to save his own life. He gives off a chaotic energy, but he’s not suicidal.

“I’ll go,” Ruran nods.

It’s still a risk, but this Golarion-saving mission is far too important.

Medomai  
“Count me in as well,” Medomai smiles.

There’ve been too many sacrifices made to stand by now.

Al  
“Excellent!” says Al, rubbing his palms together. “I’d better go tell our prisoner/temporary associate.”

\--/--

Dhuma  
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll be assassinated the second my shadow falls over the Eirdrisseir line,” roars the master-glamoured Dhuma.

His bony hands grab the bars of his cell with a clang and sticks his head out between them for emphasis, “Not. Over. My. Dead. Body.”

After a week in the EBI’s hole, it’s a stance Dhuma’s confident with taking. Unlike the real Master Nolveniss, these stiffs would never kill a dude and reanimate his corpse to make his dead body do the thing.

Al  
Al plays it much cooler than the bile threatening to seethe from his very pores. He stays leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded across his chest.

“You don’t have a choice,” you bony-assed bastard, “because now that you’ve spilled your proverbial beans, you’ve outlived your usefulness. You’re now simply a body taking up valuable, limited jailspace.”

Al pushes off the wall with a shrug. He counts off on his fingers, “You can join the service, get out here, receive our protection, return whole and hale from the Darklands, and begin a new life on the surface.”

“Or,” he holds up a single finger of the other hand, “you’re delivered to the Kyonin headquarters for sentencing and inevitable execution.”

He strolls right up into Nolveniss’ face, “Your choice.”

Dhuma  
Crying Leaf wouldn’t kill Dhuma. He knows it, Al knows, everyone knows it. Kyonin’s an unknown quandary.

But the elves had been fighting in Celwynvian for weeks now and Dhuma’s the only prisoner here. At least half Al’s threat has got to be true.

Dhuma pulls his head back. His palms slam the bars with a muttered, “Fuck.”

He stalks back to the corner, pinching the bridge of his nose. He lets go almost immediately, waving his hands in front of his face to bat away the last of his reason. Yes, he’s doing this, but he’ll do it on his terms.

“I’ll go, but not this high profile.”

For the first time since within the Armageddon Echo, Dhuma lets his master’s face and form slip off of his. He shortens and widens, his hair rising up into a heatless white flame.

Al  
Al’s jaw drops, “You’re going as the fire twink?”

Actually, that makes sense. House Azrinae would recognize Nolveniss’ apprentice, but they’d be much less inclined to kill them. And...if they see the apprentice, they’ll assume Al killed the master and enslaved his heir out of spite.

Al shuts his jaw and straightens up, “You realize how you’ll have to play this, don’t you?”

Dhuma  
“Piss off, Master Al,” which is Nolveniss’ way of Dhuma saying, ‘piss off, Master Al’.

Dhuma slumps against the corner. Sure, he’s got his body back, but it’s also back to the suck-ass life of a Zirnakaynin apprentice. No, a slave.

Al  
“Work on that acting, Nolveniss. We leave tomorrow.”

\--/--

DM  
At dawn, Kwava and a contingent of EBI interns escort everyone back to the ruins of Celwynvian. Although everything is still overgrown and decrepit, the interns have really thrown their backs into the cleaning business. All traces of blood, necromancy, demons, and other desecrations have been removed, including the shrine to Abraxas.

Ixilano, however, remains on her leaf and in her pool before the elf gate to Zirnakaynin. She pushes languorously up onto her elbows as you enter her chamber. You get the sense that she would definitely be sliding her sunglasses to the tip of her nose with her middle finger if she were wearing any.

“Well, well, welly well-well. Come back to disturb my rest again, have you?”

Al  
“Y-yes?”

There’s no way around it, really, with this human refusing to leave the gate room.

Medomai  
“Quite. And since you’re already up, would you mind ferrying us across on that leaf of yours?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Ooo, sorry,” Ixilano pulls a face. “This is really more of a one-person leaf.”

Ruran  
From where Ruran’s standing, two would be a squeeze, but they’d definitely fit.

“Can we borrow, then?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Sorry, that’s gonna be another ‘no’ from me. I’ll stay here and enjoy watching you swim across my pool, though.”

Dhuma  
The only thing surprising here is why Nolveniss had kept the laziest aboleth in the world on his payroll.

“Yeah, why’d I do that?” Dhuma mutters to themself.

Al  
“Fine then, Madam Hogs-a-Leaf,” says Al, throwing off his clothes. “How’s the water?”

DM: @Al  
“Wet.”

Al: @DM  
Al rolls his eyes and jumps into the pool.

DM: @Al  
The second the tips of Al’s fingers slice Ixilano’s pool, the sparkling, crystalline waters turn stagnant and fetid. The pristine walls crumble into molded filth, and ruddy brown stains spread across the floor.

Ixilano, up on her knees on her leaf, claps like a seal, “WAHAHAHA, you should see your faces!”

Dhuma: @DM  
Dhuma cracks a grin despite herself. She can see ‘em alright it, “That’s a good, rotten look for ya, Al.”

Al: @Dhuma  
“I fucking hate both of you,” Al grumbles, climbing out on the other side. “Tell me someone has cleaning magic.”

Medomai  
“Cleaning, yes. Sterilizing, no,” says Medomai before turning to Ruran. “Would you mind…?”

Ruran  
“Of course! I mean no. Yes?”

The confusion is temporary. Ruran flies over everyone who wants a lift, including the newly glamoured Nolveniss.

DM: @Ruran  
“Spoil sport,” Ixilano pouts, flumping back onto her leaf.

Dhuma  
“Right,” says Dhuma, hopping off Ruran’s back. “No more putting off our little death parade. Where’s my fucking key?”

DM  
“There,” Kwava points.

On the other side of the fetid pool, the interns raise the deep purple gemstone. The elf gate, though dirtier than before Ixilano’s illusion, it shimmers with iridescent energy. The stone and arch glow a faint purple. The portal itself grows smoky and whirls away to translucence and a view of a shadowed cavern beyond.

Al  
That’s the Darklands alright. Lighter than implied really, thanks to all the bioluminescent fungi and such. Home, sweet home.

Al holds a hand out to Meda, “Shall we?”

Medomai  
Medomai places his hand in Al’s, “Let’s.”

He enters the portal by Al’s side.

Ruran  
“Bye, Ixilano!” Ruran waves.

They hop through the portal fast enough to avoid eye contact with Kwava.

Dhuma  
Dhuma doesn’t look back, “Stay freaky, Fish Lady.”

DM  
“Have fun, Fire Fingers.”

This portal, warping only space instead of time and space, proves far less disorienting than that to the demi-plane. You arrive in a hot, muggy cavern capable of fitting an entire cavern in its dripping maw. Mottled, neon tapestries of fungi cover huge swaths of stone and still can’t pierce the darkness of the cave.

Al  
Yeah, that looks about right, “Follow me everyone. Kwava, keep those goggles on.”

DM: @Al  
The journey to Zirnakaynin proves relatively short with Al’s expert guidance. One meander through a maze of winding tunnels and caverns of eyeless, translucent megabugs later, a red and violet glow appears on the horizon.

The line of light rises into a cavern-wide blaze of red and violet. A thirty-foot wall of barbed stone and bladed iron stands before you, a gate of spiked black iron etched with howling demons bars all passage. As do the four heavily armored guards on either side of the gate. From the shadows above, triple that number watch the tunnel road, crossbows in hand.

They stare suspecting daggers at everyone but especially at the drow leading the pack of surface foreigners.

Al: @DM  
Al winks at his entourage over his shoulder. Without a word he flourishes a cool back hand to the guards. A fine silver chain between his fingers catches the light. From its end hangs a dark, metal medallion bearing a gem-encrusted rune, the symbol of House Vonnarc.

DM: @Al  
The guards immediately snap to attention. They call to the guards above and beyond the wall. Heavy metal chains and gears clank from within. The gate rises.

Stretching into the darkened distance, a glowing city of sculpted stone and iron blades fills a cavern the size of a great lake. Eldritch flames burn with the colors of dying suns and neon lightning ripple over spires carved from ancient stalagmites. Spidery runes flash with advertisement and enticement from every sharp, spiked corner.

Two steep cliffs jut from the cavern floor, one stacked upon the other, creating massive steps over which the dark and glowing city spills like a waterfall. Everywhere glide graceful but lethally armed crowds of the drow.

Medomai  
“We’re certainly not in Crying Leaf anymore.”

Not even Riddleport. There’s no city on the surface that can compare to this endlessly lit, endlessly midnight urban extravaganza.

Medomai gives Al’s hand a squeeze, “Welcome home.”

Ruran  
Ruran stares fish-eyed and gaping at the incredible scene before them. Their mother had left this WORLD for Riddleport. They stumble after the others in an incomprehensible haze.

Dhuma  
Dhuma swallows. It’s the most Dhuma thing they’ve done since assuming their master’s identity. With Kwava’s pointed stare between their shoulder blades, they take their first steps back under the demon gate. Welcome home, indeed.


	41. Log 41

DM  
With the loss of Nolveniss and the demi-plane, discord spreads like the plague through the renegade ranks. The EBI does its damnedest to track down and eliminate the stragglers. Meanwhile, the elves of Crying Leaf have begun the long task of restoring the ruins of Celwynvian.

A week after the shutdown of the gate to the demi-plane, Eviana calls Medomai and Ruran to the familiar EBI’s briefing hall. Kwava and the EBI’s latest recruit, Al, sit on either side of her. As Kwava’s violet eyes meet Ruran’s, his mouth curves in the slightest smile, but he keeps it professional.

Ruran  
A weak cackle escapes Ruran’s throat, the hazy memories of their horrifically-coordinated dancing still hot and ripe in the back of their mind. They hadn’t taken any further steps since that flailing fiasco, going so far as to avoid Kwava all of this week. 

But there’s no ill will in that smile. That helps. Still, Ruran can’t raise their eyes off the tabletop as they take a seat.

Medomai  
Medomai pulls out the seat beside Ruran. His resting smile doesn’t change per say as he meets Al’s gaze, but the combination gives it a sphinx-like, secret-hoarding effect. Perhaps Al would be as interested in his secrets tonight as he was this morning. And the night before. And the morning before that. Ad nauseum.

Al  
Meda, that teasing twink. Al shakes his head, but the quick lick of his lips gives him away. He clears his throat and mind with a cough.

Eviana has news. The best news he’s heard in ages. He shifts in his chair as he struggles to stay bottled and seated.

DM  
Eviana wastes no time. As soon as everyone’s seated, she launches straight into a dry but less-haggard-than-normal spiel: 

“The elf gate in the ruins still functions--both of them. The second, of course, leads to Zirnakaynin. Thanks to intelligence from Al and Nolveniss, the EBI is in a unique position of infiltration.”

Eviana nods at Al. This is, after all, his plan.

Al: @DM  
Al leaps to his feet. He paces the room as he lays it all out for his new allies:

“The leader of the renegades is Allevrah Azrinae. Apart from her name, we know next to nothing about her.”

According to the captured Nolveniss, she’d come from some tiny town on the surface but rose through the ranks of House Azrinae as a priest of Abraxas. 

“In true Zirnakaynin fashion, she raised herself to Matron of the House by offing old Simovara. That’s when the renegade surface excursions began. Her forces are allied with House Azrinae AND House Vonnarc.”

He pauses to let the point sink in as practiced but just can’t help himself. Al blows right on by, talking, walking, and gesticulating.

“We need more information about Allevrah, her plans, and her allies to rout this threat once and for all because the EBI sure as fuck doesn’t have the resources to storm a noble house of Zirnakaynin. That’s where I come in.”

Yes, sure, Al had been ousted from his own house and delivered as a torture plaything to House Azrinae in a goodwill powerplay, but if there’s anything Zirnakaynin loves, it’s a powerplay. “The greatest powerplay would be for me to return to my house with associates,” he spreads his arms out toward Kwava, Ruran, and Meda, “and a torture plaything of my own.”

Medomai: @Al  
“Nolveniss? The mage House Vonnarc’s ally Allevrah trusted enough to put in charge of her second apocalypse research? That’s objectively outrageous. Try that homecoming in any surface city and you’ll be assassinated before you sit down at the table.”

Al: @Medomai  
“Any surface city, sure. Zirnakaynin’s an entirely different beast. Assassins would stay their hands out of sheer respect of the balls.”

Medomai: @Al  
Medomai breaks down into shoulder-shaking chuckles. Al has him there. And all of the EBI, apparently.

Ruran  
“Won’t House Azrinae try to help Nolveniss escape?”

Al: @Ruran  
Al stifles his scoffing snort. Ruran may appear drow, if shorter and softer, but they’d never lived in the big city--he’d read their file.

“House Azrinae would sooner assassinate Nolveniss than stoop to help him. His failure and imprisonment is a mark of shame on the house. He’ll be safer with us than anywhere in the Darklands.”

Medomai  
Huh. Rather more dramatic than expected. Time to scale back down to earth, “There’s only one gate key. What happens if it’s stolen?”

DM  
“We’ve accounted for that,” says Eviana. “And no, we can’t risk it. If you choose to go through the portal with Al, Kwava, and Nolveniss, you’ll go without the key.”

The EBI would open the elf gate and close it behind the group. But only because their intelligence claims there’s another gate in Zirnakaynin, “One that opens directly to the EBI’s hidden city of Kyonin. As well as intel on Allevrah, it’s imperative this gate is found and neutralized--from the other side.”

Ruran  
Their claiming intelligence has got to be Nolveniss. He has every reason to lie, trick them into going and getting killed even if it means getting killed himself. Then again, he’d given up to save his own life. He gives off a chaotic energy, but he’s not suicidal.

“I’ll go,” Ruran nods.

It’s still a risk, but this Golarion-saving mission is far too important.

Medomai  
“Count me in as well,” Medomai smiles.

There’ve been too many sacrifices made to stand by now.

Al  
“Excellent!” says Al, rubbing his palms together. “I’d better go tell our prisoner/temporary associate.”

\--/--

Dhuma  
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll be assassinated the second my shadow falls over the Eirdrisseir line,” roars the master-glamoured Dhuma.

His bony hands grab the bars of his cell with a clang and sticks his head out between them for emphasis, “Not. Over. My. Dead. Body.”

After a week in the EBI’s hole, it’s a stance Dhuma’s confident with taking. Unlike the real Master Nolveniss, these stiffs would never kill a dude and reanimate his corpse to make his dead body do the thing.

Al  
Al plays it much cooler than the bile threatening to seethe from his very pores. He stays leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded across his chest.

“You don’t have a choice,” you bony-assed bastard, “because now that you’ve spilled your proverbial beans, you’ve outlived your usefulness. You’re now simply a body taking up valuable, limited jailspace.”

Al pushes off the wall with a shrug. He counts off on his fingers, “You can join the service, get out here, receive our protection, return whole and hale from the Darklands, and begin a new life on the surface.”

“Or,” he holds up a single finger of the other hand, “you’re delivered to the Kyonin headquarters for sentencing and inevitable execution.”

He strolls right up into Nolveniss’ face, “Your choice.”

Dhuma  
Crying Leaf wouldn’t kill Dhuma. He knows it, Al knows, everyone knows it. Kyonin’s an unknown quandary.

But the elves had been fighting in Celwynvian for weeks now and Dhuma’s the only prisoner here. At least half Al’s threat has got to be true.

Dhuma pulls his head back. His palms slam the bars with a muttered, “Fuck.”

He stalks back to the corner, pinching the bridge of his nose. He lets go almost immediately, waving his hands in front of his face to bat away the last of his reason. Yes, he’s doing this, but he’ll do it on his terms.

“I’ll go, but not this high profile.”

For the first time since within the Armageddon Echo, Dhuma lets his master’s face and form slip off of his. He shortens and widens, his hair rising up into a heatless white flame.

Al  
Al’s jaw drops, “You’re going as the fire twink?”

Actually, that makes sense. House Azrinae would recognize Nolveniss’ apprentice, but they’d be much less inclined to kill them. And...if they see the apprentice, they’ll assume Al killed the master and enslaved his heir out of spite.

Al shuts his jaw and straightens up, “You realize how you’ll have to play this, don’t you?”

Dhuma  
“Piss off, Master Al,” which is Nolveniss’ way of Dhuma saying, ‘piss off, Master Al’.

Dhuma slumps against the corner. Sure, he’s got his body back, but it’s also back to the suck-ass life of a Zirnakaynin apprentice. No, a slave.

Al  
“Work on that acting, Nolveniss. We leave tomorrow.”

\--/--

DM  
At dawn, Kwava and a contingent of EBI interns escort everyone back to the ruins of Celwynvian. Although everything is still overgrown and decrepit, the interns have really thrown their backs into the cleaning business. All traces of blood, necromancy, demons, and other desecrations have been removed, including the shrine to Abraxas.

Ixilano, however, remains on her leaf and in her pool before the elf gate to Zirnakaynin. She pushes languorously up onto her elbows as you enter her chamber. You get the sense that she would definitely be sliding her sunglasses to the tip of her nose with her middle finger if she were wearing any.

“Well, well, welly well-well. Come back to disturb my rest again, have you?”

Al  
“Y-yes?”

There’s no way around it, really, with this human refusing to leave the gate room.

Medomai  
“Quite. And since you’re already up, would you mind ferrying us across on that leaf of yours?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Ooo, sorry,” Ixilano pulls a face. “This is really more of a one-person leaf.”

Ruran  
From where Ruran’s standing, two would be a squeeze, but they’d definitely fit.

“Can we borrow, then?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Sorry, that’s gonna be another ‘no’ from me. I’ll stay here and enjoy watching you swim across my pool, though.”

Dhuma  
The only thing surprising here is why Nolveniss had kept the laziest aboleth in the world on his payroll.

“Yeah, why’d I do that?” Dhuma mutters to themself.

Al  
“Fine then, Madam Hogs-a-Leaf,” says Al, throwing off his clothes. “How’s the water?”

DM: @Al  
“Wet.”

Al: @DM  
Al rolls his eyes and jumps into the pool.

DM: @Al  
The second the tips of Al’s fingers slice Ixilano’s pool, the sparkling, crystalline waters turn stagnant and fetid. The pristine walls crumble into molded filth, and ruddy brown stains spread across the floor.

Ixilano, up on her knees on her leaf, claps like a seal, “WAHAHAHA, you should see your faces!”

Dhuma: @DM  
Dhuma cracks a grin despite herself. She can see ‘em alright it, “That’s a good, rotten look for ya, Al.”

Al: @Dhuma  
“I fucking hate both of you,” Al grumbles, climbing out on the other side. “Tell me someone has cleaning magic.”

Medomai  
“Cleaning, yes. Sterilizing, no,” says Medomai before turning to Ruran. “Would you mind…?”

Ruran  
“Of course! I mean no. Yes?”

The confusion is temporary. Ruran flies over everyone who wants a lift, including the newly glamoured Nolveniss.

DM: @Ruran  
“Spoil sport,” Ixilano pouts, flumping back onto her leaf.

Dhuma  
“Right,” says Dhuma, hopping off Ruran’s back. “No more putting off our little death parade. Where’s my fucking key?”

DM  
“There,” Kwava points.

On the other side of the fetid pool, the interns raise the deep purple gemstone. The elf gate, though dirtier than before Ixilano’s illusion, it shimmers with iridescent energy. The stone and arch glow a faint purple. The portal itself grows smoky and whirls away to translucence and a view of a shadowed cavern beyond.

Al  
That’s the Darklands alright. Lighter than implied really, thanks to all the bioluminescent fungi and such. Home, sweet home.

Al holds a hand out to Meda, “Shall we?”

Medomai  
Medomai places his hand in Al’s, “Let’s.”

He enters the portal by Al’s side.

Ruran  
“Bye, Ixilano!” Ruran waves.

They hop through the portal fast enough to avoid eye contact with Kwava.

Dhuma  
Dhuma doesn’t look back, “Stay freaky, Fish Lady.”

DM  
“Have fun, Fire Fingers.”

This portal, warping only space instead of time and space, proves far less disorienting than that to the demi-plane. You arrive in a hot, muggy cavern capable of fitting an entire cavern in its dripping maw. Mottled, neon tapestries of fungi cover huge swaths of stone and still can’t pierce the darkness of the cave.

Al  
Yeah, that looks about right, “Follow me everyone. Kwava, keep those goggles on.”

DM: @Al  
The journey to Zirnakaynin proves relatively short with Al’s expert guidance. One meander through a maze of winding tunnels and caverns of eyeless, translucent megabugs later, a red and violet glow appears on the horizon.

The line of light rises into a cavern-wide blaze of red and violet. A thirty-foot wall of barbed stone and bladed iron stands before you, a gate of spiked black iron etched with howling demons bars all passage. As do the four heavily armored guards on either side of the gate. From the shadows above, triple that number watch the tunnel road, crossbows in hand.

They stare suspecting daggers at everyone but especially at the drow leading the pack of surface foreigners.

Al: @DM  
Al winks at his entourage over his shoulder. Without a word he flourishes a cool back hand to the guards. A fine silver chain between his fingers catches the light. From its end hangs a dark, metal medallion bearing a gem-encrusted rune, the symbol of House Vonnarc.

DM: @Al  
The guards immediately snap to attention. They call to the guards above and beyond the wall. Heavy metal chains and gears clank from within. The gate rises.

Stretching into the darkened distance, a glowing city of sculpted stone and iron blades fills a cavern the size of a great lake. Eldritch flames burn with the colors of dying suns and neon lightning ripple over spires carved from ancient stalagmites. Spidery runes flash with advertisement and enticement from every sharp, spiked corner.

Two steep cliffs jut from the cavern floor, one stacked upon the other, creating massive steps over which the dark and glowing city spills like a waterfall. Everywhere glide graceful but lethally armed crowds of the drow.

Medomai  
“We’re certainly not in Crying Leaf anymore.”

Not even Riddleport. There’s no city on the surface that can compare to this endlessly lit, endlessly midnight urban extravaganza.

Medomai gives Al’s hand a squeeze, “Welcome home.”

Ruran  
Ruran stares fish-eyed and gaping at the incredible scene before them. Their mother had left this WORLD for Riddleport. They stumble after the others in an incomprehensible haze.

Dhuma  
Dhuma swallows. It’s the most Dhuma thing they’ve done since assuming their master’s identity. With Kwava’s pointed stare between their shoulder blades, they take their first steps back under the demon gate. Welcome home, indeed.


	42. Log 42

DM  
Second Son Tiryin Vonnarc is tall, even for an elf. He seems even taller with his powerfully muscled build, more demi-god hero of old than drow.

Second Daughter Faidaeva Vonnarc is almost as tall as her brother in her high-heeled sandals. Rather than the typical drow white, her hair flows long, unruly, and golden from a high ponytail.

First Son Erdrinneir Vonnarc could be taller than his sister, but it’s impossible to tell with his pronounced slouch, one to give Giseil a run for his money. He even leans heavily upon a dark, branched staff, a habit known to render such postures permanent.

First Daughter Alicavniss Vonnarc stands just over the first son in her own high-heeled sandals but no taller than your very own Al Vonnarc. Except for right now, glaring white-eyed daggers from the head of the table to where he sits, uncouthly.

The first daughter is, however, the first to recover from her hate-shock at the sight of him. Her hostile, even murderous visage smooths over into a cool, measured smirk, “Aldinach, you’ve returned to us--and brought friends, how delightful!”

Behind her back, the second daughter helps the fallen slave to her feet by dragging her up by the hair, now with a smile. The first and second sons have also stretched their lips into a shallow rictus.

Khein  
Khein winces in pain but keeps her face down under the curtains of her gray hair where it can’t be seen. As soon as she’s released, she walks to the table and sets each Vonnarc amulet by a stranger like she might a glass of wine.

Ruran  
Ruran nods their thanks at the slave with a tight smile. And immediately refocuses their attention on their mark, the first daughter. Ruran tries for an even wider smile.

Dhuma  
“Thanks,” says Dhuma without ever looking away from the four noble scions standing at the head of the table and practically bending the room around them with their unimaginable power.

Dhuma’s first instinct is to break into a cold sweat. Nolveniss’ is to grin almost mockingly. He compromises by doing both.

Al  
Al remains seated for the introductions portion of the reunion, all of which falls to him. 

“I’m not sure how long we’ll be in the city, maybe a three-day, maybe forever,” he casually threatens, “but I expect I’ll be needing my rooms back, if you haven’t torched that wing of the palace.”

DM: @Al  
“Oh, so sorry,” says Alicavniss, clasping her hands in a deliberately unconvincing show of apology, “but we did. It’s under complete reconstruction as we speak.”

None of you remember the scaffolding or noises of building to support her claim.

“You’ll have to stay in the guest rooms, I’m afraid.”

Medomai  
“No matter,” says Medomai, his eyes travelling up to meet Erdrinneir’s only to descend the length of his body and flick back. “I’m sure we can find more interesting pursuits in the city while we’re visiting.”

DM  
Ruran and Medomai’s looks have not gone unnoticed. The four scions quickly look in toward each other in a seemingly telepathic, micro-second family plotting session. They look back with much warmer, even inviting smiles.

“There’s no shortage of interest in Zirnakaynin,” says Alicavniss, her smile fixing on Ruran. “I’m sure you must be fatigued from your travels, but we’d love to have you all for a meal. We are very curious to meet our dear brother’s friends. Would you perhaps care to join us in the dining room after a four-hour?”

Erdrinneir fixes his on Medomai, “You should really try the local cuisine while you’re here, and we do hire the best chefs in Zirnakaynin.”

Ruran: @DM  
“That sounds lovely.”

Medomai: @DM  
“I do enjoy local cuisine.”

DM  
“Wonderful!” Faidaeva giggles, clapping her hands.

“We’ll see you in four hours,” says Alicavniss.

The four scions turn to go as one.

“We’ll be eagerly awaiting your presence,” Tiryin waves without looking back. His waving hand snatches the slave by the collar. He drags her from the room with them. “Come along, Khein. Don’t bother our honored guests.”

Khein  
Khein gulps, eyes wide with fear. It’s her last glimpse of the newcomers before she has to turn around and scurry properly or fall down and possibly get dragged across the floor. It’s happened before.

Al: @Khein  
Al frowns at the back of Khein’s head, her face still fixed in his mind. For a tiefling half-drow, she’d looked awfully like Matron Pravora might’ve in her youth. She couldn’t be a cousin--family didn’t enslave family. An unrecognized bastard child, perhaps.

No, that still doesn’t make sense. As High Priestess of Areshkagal, the demon lord wouldn’t have cursed any of his mother’s offspring with degenerate signs of the Abyss like horns. Ascended marks only in this family.

Ruran  
“We did it. We hooked them,” Ruran looks from one friend or associate to the next.

Dhuma  
“That’s the easy part. Now we’ve gotta play the game and stick to it. That means keeping our stories straight.”

Al  
Al leaps off his train of thought with a leap off his chair, “Right. We’ve got four hours. Plenty of time to get that sorted. Follow me to the guest wing.”

He holds an arm out for Meda.

Medomai  
Medomai, smiling as ever, takes Al’s arm, “Lead on, lost scion of the Vonnarcs.”

\--/--

DM  
The four hours gives you plenty of time to work out whatever stories you may feel necessary to present and even rest off some of the fatigue of having trekked hours through a bustling city and barren countryside. Thirty minutes before the prescribed dinner hour, you hear the wheels of a trolley rolling to a stop outside the darkwood door of your sumptuous, velvety apartments.

Medomai  
Medomai, closest to the front door of the guest apartment, strolls over to open it. He leans in the doorway, greeting whoever’s without with a cool but smiling, “Yes?”

Khein: @Medomai  
It’s Khein, sporting a dark shiner over one wisteria-gray cheekbone. She bobs in a polite if hurried bow and wheels the trolley forward. It’s packed with a hanging variety of presently fashionable dining wear, a small fortune on wheels.

“Compliments of the house,” she explains, keeping her offending face down as much as she can. “I’ve been sent to assist your dressing.”

Dhuma  
Dhuma knows a spy when they see one. They roll off the lounge chaise and join Medomai in the doorway, standing under his arm, arms crossed.

“Thanks, but we can handle clothing ourselves.”

Al  
Al looks up from where he’s reclining on his own velvet chaise. It’s her.

“Actually, I could use some assistance. The finer the clothes, the more fiddly. Come in--Khein, is it?”

Khein: @Al  
“Yes, Master Aldinach, it’d be my pleasure,” Khein says mostly to the darkly carpeted floor.

She wheels in the trolley and stands aside, hands clasped demurely in front of her.

Ruran  
Ruran approaches the trolley with timid steps. They can smell the wealth coming off those clothes at five paces. It’s dizzying, exhilarating. They tweeze a dark, silky suit up with their fingertips and hold it against their body. The gold rush gives them the nerve to glance up at Kwava as they do so.

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava’s mouth spreads into an equally delighted grin, “You should try it on, Ruran.”

He walks up beside them to pick a deep green suit from the trolley himself. He holds it against his own tall, athletic frame, “Do you think it suits me?”

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran’s face heats furiously. Unable to form words with their suddenly leaden tongue, they nod vigorously.

Khein  
Khein can’t help a small, hidden smile at Ruran and Kwava. Strangers though they be, there’s not enough cuteness in her life--she’ll appreciate what she can get.

Medomai  
Medomai looks from Al to Khein and back. He hasn’t known his lover long, but any fool with eyes can see Al’s been inexplicably affected by the tiefling. Sexual or not, he wants to know what the fuck is going on here--a question that’ll have to wait until after dinner, apparently.

Dhuma  
Dhuma grins at this unexpected development in his enemy’s love life. He plucks a fiery red suit from the trolley and dances away with it, whistling a merry tune.

Al  
Al stands from the chaise, glancing the clothesline from across the room. He points a finger at the deep purple suit at the end, “I’ll take that one.”

He strips mechanically, discarding his clothes without any awareness of where they land. His honey gold gaze can’t quite focus on the slave’s foreign but familiar face.

Ruran  
Ruran runs off to change into their suit, their smile growing wider and sloppier by the second. They don’t care that they’re gonna have to spend the dinner focusing their conversation on Alicavniss. Kwava’s going to be there looking immaculate and thinking they look nice as well.

Khein  
Khein does her best to duck out of line of Medomai’s hostile glare as she scurries to the disrobing Vonnarc with his chosen suit. She helps him dress with as few touches and glances at his muscled body as she can. She can’t, however, ignore his bodily heat or scent from such close proximity.

A dark flush spreads from her chest to her cheeks. He smells just like the other scions, rich and deep with power. It’s as frightening as it is intoxicating.

Medomai  
Medomai selects a deep navy suit from the trolley. He stares Al dead in the face and disrobes right here in the common room as well. His stare breaks only with a glance at the tiefling’s aroused blush. The smile never leaves his face, but a muscle twitches in his jaw.

“If you’re finished with my lover, I could use your assistance, slave.”

Khein: @Medomai  
“Of course, Master Medomai.”

Khein scurries from Al’s side to Medomai’s, dutifully dressing the ghastly pale half-elf.

Dhuma  
Dhuma returns from his room in his brilliantly, mockingly red suit. Medomai’s got the poor slave bending to him now. Dhuma lets out a husky laugh. This is gonna be some dinner.

Al  
Al raises an eyebrow at Meda. Surely he’s not jealous of a slave, a mere slave. Master-slave relations are about as personable as a written business contract, less even. Whatever this is, it’ll have to wait until after dinner.

“You look incredible,” he remarks.

Medomai: @Al  
“Thank you. So do you,” Medomai returns.

Ruran  
Ruran peeks out from behind their door. Their eyes meet Kwava’s before sweeping up and down his suit. Not his body in the suit. Maybe a little of that.

They clear their throat with a weak cackle and step out from behind the door, “H-how do I look?”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava extends his hand to Ruran to give them a twirl, “Striking.”

He raises their hand and brushes his lips over their fingertips.

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran has to remind themself to breathe.

Khein  
Khein bows to the group, “If you’re satisfied with your suits, I’ll remove the trolley and return to escort you to the dining room.”

Medomai  
“Very,” says Medomai icily.

Dhuma  
“Very,” Dhuma grins.

Al  
“For now.”

Ruran  
“Very, thank you, Khein.”

Khein  
Khein bows again and wheels the trolley out as fast as they can, eager for the escape however brief.


	43. Log 43

DM  
You follow Khein to the dining room, an airy red chamber set upon slender black columns. Diaphanous curtains of spider silk billow between them and the warm breeze of the open balcony, blurring the glow of lights from the dark countryside.

The four scions stand in waiting along the line of columns. The first daughter wears a plunging red dress under skull and bone epaulettes and a cut-out navy bodice. The first son wears hooded, violet robes with epaulettes of antler and bone. The second daughter wears a bronze-y corset and a red, slit-leg skirt conjoined by a bronze belt with a skull buckle over a dangling holy symbol, presumably Areshkagal’s. The second son wears a white suit jacket, open and plunging over the finely cut muscles of his chest and abdomen as well as loose, navy pants that taper against shapely calves.

They greet you visitors with bright and winning white smiles. Behind them stretches a long, black-marble table set with white spider silk runners, black porcelain dishes ringed with gold, and elegant crystal goblets.

“We’re so glad you could join us,” says Alicavniss, addressing all though her smile fixes on Ruran.

“You’re the most interesting thing to happen here all week,” giggles Faidaeva.

“I can’t wait to hear what you think of the cuisine in these parts,” Erdrinneir says broadly, though his eyes remain on Medomai.

“Please, come sit down,” says Tiryin, spreading an arm toward the table.

Medomai  
Medomai slips his arm through Erdrinneir’s, the side of his body brushing the first son’s, “Let’s. All this travel has left me...ravenous.”

Khein  
Khein bows as unobtrusively as she can and ducks out through the servant’s door. She returns with the first course, a delicate mushroom broth, and decanters of various spirits on yet another trolley.

Dhuma  
Dhuma straightens his lapels and takes Tiryin’s arm, “Lead on, my man.”

Al  
Al offers his siblings a thin, toothy, perfunctory grin, “Thanks for all the trouble.”

He pours himself a goblet full of blood-red alcohol and takes a seat.

Ruran  
“We’re so glad to be here,” says Ruran.

They follow Medomai’s lead with a timid, barely touching hand over Alicavniss’.

DM  
Alicavniss’ smile widens. She places her other hand reassuringly over Ruran’s and leads them to a seat by hers at the head of the table.

Kwava, meanwhile, makes his way to Faidaeva’s side. His eyes flick up and down the length of her artfully displayed body. He holds out his arm, “Care to sit?”

Faidaeva giggles. She follows Kwava to his chair. When he sits, she slides herself onto his lap.

Medomai  
Medomai blinks at Kwava and Faidaeva. Well that was fast. He glances at Erdrinneir. Yeah, no, he’s not getting on that man’s lap without drinking himself into a half-stupor first.

He snaps his fingers at Khein, “I’ll take the strongest spirit you’ve got.”

Perhaps something equivalent to a punch in the face.

Khein  
Khein takes and serves everyone’s drink orders along with the soup. She ducks out yet again to fetch the second course.

Dhuma  
“Sooo, what’s your idea of a good time my strapping gentlesir,” Dhuma asks Tiryin.

DM: @Dhuma  
“I was thinking to arrange a lizard ride around the countryside, if you’d care to join me Dhuma, is it?”

Dhuma: @DM  
“No--yeah, on both counts. It’s been awhile since I’ve been riding. Good to get my lizard-legs back under me.”

Al  
“It’s been awhile since I’ve ridden myself.”

DM: @Al  
“Sorry, big brother, but we just had a fire down at the lizard livery. Only two lizards made it out.”

Ruran  
“I hear you’re an archmage,” Ruran says to Alicavniss. “Is it true you’re the head of a magic academy?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Right on both counts,” smiles Alicavniss. “Would you care for a tour of the academy?”

Ruran: @DM  
“I would love it!”

Al: @DM  
“I’d love to see what you’ve been up to at the academy as well, Alicavniss.”

DM: @Al  
“And we would love to have you visit, dear brother, but unfortunately, our tour policy has changed to make the experience more personal--one-on-one only. I’ll see if I can pencil you in after Ruran’s.”

Medomai  
“You’re a mage at the academy as well, aren’t you?” Medomai asks Erdrinneir.

DM: @Medomai  
“I am indeed. I tend to keep to the laboratories, but that’s where all the action is. Would you perhaps care to see for yourself?”

Medomai: @DM  
“I would indeed. I take it that’ll be another academy personal tour?”

DM: @Medomai  
“It will,” answers Erdrinneir with a sly glance at Al.

Al: @DM  
Al knew going in, of course, that his siblings were going to get a sick kick out of excluding him from everything, but it still irks that very childish part of him that’s clung to the back of his brain.

Khein  
Khein returns from the kitchens with a wilted mushroom and algae salad served with a protein-rich, spider-milk cheese dressing. She swaps out the dishes and refills everyone’s crystal glasses.

Dhuma  
Dhuma eats with relish. This is their native cuisine only amped up to an exorbitant classiness they’d never gotten to experience even as an apprentice in House Azrinae.

Al  
Well, everything is going right to irksome plan. Al sighs and calls Khein over with a snap, “Alcohol, alcohol, please?”

Khein: @Al  
“Yes, Master Al,” Khein fills his cup with the same face-punching strength spirit she’d given Medomai.

Al: @Khein  
Al knocks back his drink in one hand and catches Khein’s wrist in the other, “Are you doing anything later?”

Khein: @Al  
Khein’s eyes flick nervously toward the four scions currently engaged in entertaining the other guests. She swallows and shakes her head. When she speaks, her voice has diminished to a breath, “No, Master Al. Is there something I can do for you?”

Al: @Khein  
“Meet me in the drawing room after dinner.”

Khein: @Al  
“Yes, Master Al.”

Ruran  
Ruran knows this is all just a ploy, but this is their mother’s world. They can’t help but try every new course with sparkling-eyed delight and lean on Alicavniss’ every word. Tomorrow, they’ll even be touring the city’s foremost magic academy. They’re nearly vibrating out of their seat.

DM  
The dinner goes off without a hitch. All of you with marks for your information-gathering espionage have successfully hooked your fish. While the elves have no need of sleep, they bid you a good rest for as long as you need.

\--/--

Khein  
Khein steps as quietly as she cn into the drawing room, shutting the door soundlessly behind her. Her heart pounding in her throat beats as loud as a wardrum.

Al  
Al, drunk as a student on their parents’ allowance, lounges in an overstuffed armchair, one leg thrown over an arm. He stumbles out and walks over to Khein. He crosses his arms over his chest and jerks his chin at the shiner on her face.

“Which one gave you that?”

Khein  
“Tiryin,” Khein breathes, voice shaken.

Al  
“Why?”

Khein  
“I--I don’t know.”

Al  
“Was it because of me? Showing up like I did?”

Khein  
Khein gulps and croaks, “Maybe.”

Al  
Al reaches up toward the edge of the bruise but stops short of touching Khein’s skin, “I’m sorry.”

Khein  
Khein closes her eyes. She lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. Her shiver brushes her face against Al’s hand. Before she can pull away, her body flushes with heat--a trained response, unfortunately.

Al  
Al opens his hand to cup the side of her blushing face. His eyes narrow to honey gold slits, “Do they fuck you?”

Khein  
Khein’s eyes squeeze more tightly shut, “Y-yes, Master Al.”

Al  
“Bastards,” Al spits, his breath short and hot.

Khein  
Khein’s eyes relax, opening slowly. She leans her head against the firm line of his palm. From this distance, he’s all that she can smell.

Al  
“Do you...want me to fuck you?”

Khein  
“Y-yes, Master Al,” Khein swallows.

Al  
Al steps closer, forcing Khein back against the wall. His hand on her face slides down to take her chin. Her turns her face to one side and then the other, “Has anyone told you that you look just like our mother?”

Khein  
All the gods-damned time. 

“Please just fuck me.”

Al  
Al obliges. For hours. They have a lot of floor, wall, and furniture space to cover for a proper “fuck you” to his siblings.

\--/--

Medomai  
Medomai is waiting for Al in the common room of the guest apartments. Like the other elves in this place, he doesn’t actually need to sleep. He can wait here all “night”.

Al  
Al stumbles in eventually, reeking of alcohol, his borrowed clothes in shambles. He greets Meda with a bow and flumps into the lounge chaise opposite the half-elf’s.

“Ask me any questions, I will tell you no lies,” he mumbles wearily.

Medomai  
“Where were you?” Medomai asks frostily.

Al  
“In the drawing room.”

Medomai  
“And were you drawing?” Medomai’s voice drops several degrees.

Al  
“No. You know what I was doing. But maybe not why.”

Medomai  
“Then. Why?”

Al  
“First off, my bros and sissies need to believe I’m not close enough to any one here to make it difficult to turn ‘em against me. Or that I’m abs worth turning against even if we are.

“Second off, that was ALL my sibs’ fuck-slave. She looks like our mom, see? They have been ex-c-luding me. There’s no better ‘fuck you’ then getting in on their personal business.”

Medomai  
“Frankly, I’m disgusted.”

Al  
“Good. Zirnakaynin politics ARE disgusting. That’s why I’m gonna kill my sibs.”

Medomai  
“What?”

Al  
“What?”

Medomai  
“Al...that wasn’t the plan.”

There’s a good reason it’s not. Al’s siblings are ridiculously powerful. An assassination attempt, especially a solo assassination attempt, is sure to end in the assassin’s death.

Al  
Al taps a finger to his temple. He points at Medomai with a wink. Then passes out into a drunken, snoring snooze-fest.

Medomai  
Medomai shakes his head pushing out of the chaise. He scoops the buzz-sawing Al up into his arms and carries him to his room. His mind is distant with questions as he pulls the covers of his lover’s still-clad body.

It’s possible Al had just been drunkenly spouting off against his siblings, but there was an inkling of a plan in those words. However feeble, it’s enough to concern Medomai. Though not enough to tell the others until he catches Al truly setting down that suicidal path.


	44. Log 44

DM  
On the subterranean morrow, Tiryin meets Dhuma in the purportedly burned lizard stable. They’d seemed to have gotten the fire well under control. They’d also managed to refill the stables with the giant cave geckos, unless rumors of their demise had been greatly exaggerated.

The smooth-scaled lizards are as large as horses. The powerful left-right rotary lunges of their back legs give them a distinctive side-to-side-like gait. Their splayed, padded feet allow them to climb any surface no matter how slick, which is presumably how six geckos are upside on the high ceiling, four at right angles on the stable walls, and only the two in stablehand hands remain on the ground.

Tiryin extends a hand to Dhuma with an amused grin, “Have you ever ridden before, Dhuma?”

Dhuma  
Dhuma had certainly not. There’d been no time during his apprenticeship for such frivolous things as lizard rides, cave country expeditions, and sit-down dinners.

“I used to be an Azrinae apprentice. What do you think?”

DM  
“You’re not an apprentice anymore, are you?” says Tiryin more slyly than his build and demeanor suggest possible.

He helps Dhuma onto a lizard and mounts his own with a single step and practiced swing of his leg.

Dhuma  
“That’s true…”

DM  
“Then you’re entitled to your fair share everything, especially fun.”

Tiryin whoops and takes off at a wild, lizard-wobbling gait. Dhuma’s lizard gallops wonkily after. As you catch up, Tiryin gives you a wild grin and puts the pedal to the lizard metal.

You race, neck and neck, deeper and wilder into the dark countryside of Eirdrisseir. Tiryin leaps a gaping chasm from countryside into uncharted Darklands. He looks back, panting, grin irrepressible.

Dhuma  
“You’d better know what you’re fucking doing,” Dhuma mutters into the ear hole of his gecko.

He circles back for greater clearance, ignoring the sweat gathering on his palms and his shortening breath. At the end of the stretch, Dhuma kicks all reasonable thought out his brain. He digs in his heels and lets what gecko powers may be take the reins, “Yah!”

DM  
The lizard rockets down the stretch. It leaps off the stone with the audible squelch of its unsticking feet. The Dhuma hangs suspended in the air over the bottomless chasm, gecko wobbling side to side under him.

Time returns with a rush of air into his face. The gecko lands springily on the other side. It slows its lopsided waddle by Tiryin’s side.

Tiryin laughs and claps a hand on your shoulder, “Nicely done! Nicely done, my friend! You’re officially too fun-loving to be an apprentice any more.”

Dhuma  
“That’s some graduation,” Dhuma pants, grinning despite himself.

Tiryin’s not a bad guy when he’s ulterior-motive entertaining. Dhuma almost wishes they could stay in the gray area and keep being courted with fine clothes, dinners, and extreme gecko rides. But that’s Dhuma talking. Nolveniss, who knows better, slaps Dhuma upside the imaginary head.

DM  
Once Dhuma recovers his breath, Tiryin continues to lead the geckos along at a leisurely, swivelling trot.

Dhuma  
“You, eh, you hear anything about my erstwhile magic masters?”

DM  
“Funny them, nearly the whole damn house has left Zirnakaynin--not just for grounds topside but much deeper into the Darklands.”

Dhuma  
“Any word on Nolveniss Azrinae?”

DM  
This time, Tiryin turns his head from the road to meet Dhuma’s eyes for a long, canny second, “We heard about his rout in Celwynvian...Aldinach’s involvement. It was a dreadful shame on the house, enough that they’re going to let that property lie. Were you there?”

Dhuma  
Time to play up the morally gray, on-the-fence-of-betrayal prisoner of war that Dhuma truthfully is, “Yeah, yeah, I fucking was.”

Dhuma goes into an account built on the bones of truth but so embittered and exaggerated that they might as well be pulling it out their vengeful ass.

DM  
Tiryin’s look of feigned shock and outrage on Dhuma’s behalf nearly breaks into the more expected vicious and conniving grin that is a drow noble’s prerogative.

“So you are, essentially, not an associate of Aldinach’s but being held as a subservient trophy?”

Dhuma  
Dhuma bristles with only half-feigned rage.

“Yes,” she gripes through the wall of her gritting teeth.

DM  
“We’ll have to do something about that while you’re here.”

Dhuma  
“Indeed we will.”

\--/--

DM  
Tower Solacas, Zirnakaynin’s premier magic academy, is a slope-tiered structure of spell-shaped stone and glistening crystal rising taller than the Vonnarc’s own palace. Within, the nobles’ most promising scions train in the wizardly arts at the feet of established mages but most notably the reigning Vonnarc archmage, Alicavniss.

Twisting crystals and dim, arcane fires provide each tunnel and chamber with enough shadowy illumination for the hustling mages and harried apprentices to study and conduct their experiments. The entry hall in which Ruran and Medomai await their respective guides is no different.

Flickering spell-light and glass globes crackling with imprisoned lightning pattern the dark stone walls of this grand, tear-shaped chamber. At the room’s center, a pool of bubbling water and arcane flame sends bursts of deadly beauty leaping high  
into the air. Curling around the fountain’s dazzling display rises a flight of black marble steps, while two pairs of wrought iron doors bar the way to the east.

As students of magic themselves, Ruran and Medomai identify the lights as the overlapping effects of permanent continual flame, faerie fire, and various other illusions. Not only that, but the fountain is a beautiful but disastrous result of a dual-summoning that fused and entrapped a balor within a greater water elemental.

Ruran  
Oof, is that a terrible fate. Those creatures are indefinitely long-lived as well, so who knows how long they’d been fused.

Medomai  
Medomai stares at the magically still surface of the pool, using it as a mirror as he re-applies his lavender lipstick. It just be like that sometimes.

DM  
The wrought iron doors swing soundlessly open. Archmage Alicavniss dressed to the nines in a navy and blood red spider silk suit and Erdrinneir hooded in purple traditional robes sweep down either branch of the marble stairs.

“Ruran, Medomai, so glad you could make it,” Alicavniss grins, her arms thrown wide.

Erdrinneir smiles wordlessly, his smile less sparkling but no less welcoming than his sister’s.

Alicavniss holds her arm out for Ruran, “Are you ready to see the life of a student of magic?”

Erdrinneir holds his arm out for Medomai. 

“Nevermind that,” he whispers. “Come with me if you want to see where the magic happens.”

Ruran  
Ruran’s so excited they can’t speak, only opening their mouth to a hoarse squeak.

Medomai  
“You had me at nevermind.”

\--/--

DM  
Crowds of rushing students part for the first daughter with Ruran on her arm. She guides Ruran down the halls to a pair of wooden doors carved with a faceless sphinx-like demon clutching bladed quills in their clawed forepaws. Alicavniss throws the doors open to a vast, fang-shaped chamber.

Tables upon tables of students fill the room with scratching quills and whispered bargains for answers.

“Our apprentices study here for decades before we can admit them to the ranks of our elite house mages,” Alicavniss clicks down the hall to similar doors at the far end.

A hand tugs on Ruran’s labcoat, “Hey, you got scrolls?”

CR-RACK. Alicavniss backhands the apprentice across the cheek. They promptly release Ruran and huddle back over their books.

“Sorry about that. You’ll have to forgive them--they don’t get out much.”

Ruran  
Ruran cackles weakly, “It’s cool.”

It’s not. The slap, that is. Behind their back, Ruran sneaks their scroll of web from their pack and holds it out for the cracked apprentice.

DM  
The scroll vanishes from Ruran’s hand immediately as it’s offered. If Alicavniss notices, it doesn’t stop her from waving Ruran onward to the far doors, “Now this, I think you’re really going to enjoy.”

The first daughter places a finger to her lips and places her palm against the door. It swings open soundlessly to a room thick with the weight and muffling silence of pure knowledge inscribed in ink and paper. 

Shelves enclosed in crimson-tinted glass fill the chamber, each rack holding countless tomes given a sanguine tinge within their fragile prisons. Between them, the skins of fiery-scaled lizards cover the dark stone floor. At least fifteen feet above gapes a  
circular oculus in the ceiling, letting in the unknowable gaze of Areshkagal and her demonic host to bless this sacred space.

“Welcome, Ruran, to the library.”

Ruran  
Ruran floats on wings of soundless wonder to the nearest bookshelf. They run a hand down the line of tomes, fingertips caressing each and every spine. By the end of the line, they just can’t contain themself and pull the book off the shelf into their arms. Their fingers trace the title script.

DM  
Ruran may or may not even hear Alicavniss’ vicarious, delighted giggle in their reverie.

The tome, Blackest Blood, is written entirely in Elvish. A quick skim or perhaps even longer perusal--time moves at its own pace here--reveals its contents dedicated to a legendary Darklands cavern known as the Land of Black Blood.

“No one has ever found it,” Alicavniss whispers over Ruran’s shoulder, “but the eastern depths of Orv that are said to contain it are real enough.”

Ruran  
Ruran jumps at the sudden influx of civilization into the wilds of their imagination. They clear their throat with a parched cackle but don’t close the tome.

“Thank you so much for taking me here.”

DM  
“The pleasure’s all mine. I take it you’re enjoying yourself?”

Ruran  
“I could spend an eternity here.”

DM  
“Many do. It’s such a shame Aldinach means only to make a short visit…”

Ruran  
“Oh. Yes. Of course. A few days and then we’re off to search for some elf gate,” Ruran answers as casually as they can.

DM  
“An elf gate? To the surface? Huh. What interest would Aldinach have in such a thing?”

Ruran  
The first daughter knows it leads to the surface. Because of course she does. She’s the master of the information network.

Ruran frowns, their brow furrowing with a whole plowed field’s worth of lines. They’re no good at this intelligence gathering business and everyone in the room knows it. They might as well just come right out and--

“If you let me know where the portal is, I’ll tell you what Aldinach’s up to.”

DM  
Alicavniss’ brows shoot up, but she shrugs and magically floats a scroll from a cubby across the aisle. She spreads her hand flat out under it. The scroll unrolls into a map of Zirnakaynin and the region immediately surrounding the city’s great, conjoined caverns.

She taps a red-nailed fingertip to a spot outside the city. A black X spreads out under the sharp, glossy nail, “One elf gate to the surface, as ordered. The keystone should be somewhere nearby. Your turn.”

Ruran  
“Aldinach...didn’t make any kind of grand escape. He was rescued by me and the other agents of the EBI in exchange for taking us down here to learn about House Azrinae and the elf gate. He’s...honestly been kind of a handful.”

DM  
“Now that sounds more like my little brother,” Alicavniss laughs even as her fingers form a red-tipped steeple under her chin. “And what’s to become of Aldinach once the EBI have expended his usefulness?”

Ruran  
“We haven’t planned quite that far ahead. It depends on what he’d walk away knowing, I guess. Why, do you have some ideas?”

DM  
“I believe I might,” smiles the archmage.

\--/--

DM  
First Son Erdrinneir leads Medomai down winding metal stairs to the sub-subterranean levels of Tower Solacas. He stops at the far end of a shadowed, metal tune of a hall before a thick metal door braced shut with two heavy beams of dark iron.

“Real magic is a...noxious business,” he pushes the door open without further warning.

The noxious side of magic explodes out in a choking cloud of stinging chemicals, acrid incenses, and fouler but unidentifiable miasmas. Surrounded by ghostly auras in the sickening mist, pulsing crystalline lanterns stud the walls and dangle over long tables crammed full of massive tomes, smoldering braziers, spiraling glassware, beastly dissections, cloudy specimen flasks, and other oddities.

Erdrinneir is quick to point out the most noteworthy of the projects underway--a half-finished rod of withering, a dissected but still animate svirfneblin zombie, and what appears to be an iron golem with more than a few plates missing and screws loose. He’s even quicker to shoo out the apprentices at the workstations, “You’re blocking the view! What if this were a genuine investor? Twenty points from all of you! Fifty if you don’t bumble your asses out of here in five, four--”

Every apprentice in the laboratory rockets out the iron door. The first son shakes his head, “The day that golem is finished, we’re going to have our own little Imbecile Hunt here at the tower.”

Medomai  
“That would really hook those investors.”

DM  
“I know! Right?”

Medomai  
Medomai takes a leisurely tour through the lab, beginning at the twitching body of the zombified deep gnome, “So if this is where the real magic happens, what is it they do upstairs?”

DM  
“Pfft! Theoretical magic,” spits Erdrinneir, falling into step with Medomai. “It’s neat, it’s tidy, and it’ll never net them anything but another page in a dry, dusty tome that’ll never be read or read and instantly forgotten after the exam.

“Why do you think Alicavniss has tossed off her duties as archmage to run her little intelligence game? Because theoretical magic is fucking boring.”

Medomai  
“My, so the entire house knows why we’re here, then?”

DM  
“Don’t insult my intelligence. Alicavniss may be the head of the ring, but this tower is MY bitch. I am the eyes and ears in the walls. The only reason you and your associates are still living is because we may yet come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Medomai  
Medomai quirks his brow at the mage’s frankness but nods undeterred and takes a turn past the half-finished rod, “Very well. You give me Allevrah’s next move and I’ll…”

DM  
“Arrange the most public and shameful betrayal, execution, and post-execution humiliation of Aldinach Vonnarc imaginable.”

Medomai  
“That should be no trouble--we’ve a necromancer among our number.”

DM  
Erdrinneir smiles the first genuine smile he’s had since you’ve met him. And lays out Allevrah’s plot:

“Allevrah’s team in Celwynvian made a breakthrough in ancient aboleth glyph magic, which is why they’ve no need of retaking the ruins. She’s going to bring a second Earthfall down upon the heart of the elven nations, Kyonin. To do so, she’ll have to plant and activate six earthfall glyphs, likely within the Land of Black Blood.”

Medomai  
Medomai comes to a stop before the iron golem, “You’ve been incomparably helpful, Erdrinneir.”

DM  
“I do what I do in the name of results. Don’t let me down, Medomai. I’d hate to demonstrate the iron golem in the absence of any actual investors.”


	45. Log 45

Al  
Al, his hands on either of Khein’s horns, moves her mouth off of him, “Demon’s quills, you’re as bad as Fey Powder.”

He’s taken her to Faidaeva’s room, of course. It’s less than an hour before dinner, so she should be back soon, and hopefully with Kwava in tow.

He had to charm the shit out of the door guards to let them in and give them these last forty minutes’ worth of privacy--a narrow window.

DM: @Al  
Narrow, indeed. Al and Khein have only ten minutes left of those thirty.

Khein  
Khein smiles hollowly. Al is exaggerating. He’s a frustrated Vonnarc like all the rest. His emotional baggage is doing half the work and all the addicting.

She opens her mouth wide before rolling up from her knees to her feet.

DM  
“--in the name of fuck possessed those gecko-brained cunt-wipes to--”

The sight of Al and Khein cuts Faidaeva off mid-ranting question. The doors swing shut behind her and Kwava. Her face steels over from genial (if angry) host to mightily, icily pissed off. Kwava, meanwhile, only frowns at Al in silent, arm-spreading question behind her back.

“And what in the name of fuck are YOU doing here?”

Al  
Al walks toward Faidaeva with a long-practiced smile even as each step sinks him deeper into spiralling bloodrage. He doesn’t stop, instead walking right into her. His twin sickles walk even deeper. He gives them a vicious twist as he whispers into her ear, “Killing you, obviously.”

Khein  
Khein, in the safety of her mistress’ soundproof bedroom, lets out the hair-raising, ethereal wail of a banshee at her long-time oppressor. She claps her hands beneath her chin and throws her arms wide, casting haste on Al, Kwava, and herself.

DM  
“Al! What are you doing?” shouts Kwava, casting barkskin in shocked, self-defensive reflex.

“Killing me, OBVIOUSLY,” roars Faidaeva.

She bashes at Al with her heavy mace even as she shifts back toward the door. The distracted blow is barely bruising.

Al  
“Sorry, Kwava,” Al growls through his rage, now fanned fuelled by Khein’s own. “How about we just try to contain this little mistake of mine?”

He matches step with Faidaeva. This time, his flurry of blades crackles with Khein’s electricity.

DM  
Al cuts deep into his own kin, nearly severing the shielded arm that reaches for the door.

Kwava’s face falls to a grim line. The truth of the matter is, they’re all dead if this gets out. Cornered by Al and his own stupidity, Kwava draws his sword and lets Khein’s electric rage flow through him.

The elf finishes Al’s cut. Faidaeva’s severed arm rolls across the floor. She crumples and slides down the dark wood door, bleeding out into a puddle on the floor.

“F-fffuck y-yyou.”

Khein  
“No. Fuck you.”

Khein slams her heel into Faidaeva’s face, crushing her skull between boot and door.

DM  
Despite not a second to spare, Kwava can’t help rounding on Al, “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

Al  
“WE have enacted Part 1 of my four part revenge plot. We’ve got thirty minutes to get this right or everyone dies, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out.”

Khein  
“Twenty eight,” counts Khein, dragging Faidaeva’s body away from the door.

DM  
“For fuck’s sake--what’s next, dare I fucking ask?”

Al  
“Not ‘what’, ‘who’. Who would be Erdrinneir.”

Khein  
Khein peers out the door, checking for a premature return of the guard.

DM  
The guard appears to be holding true to their lightly given word, for now.

Al  
“Shall we?”

Khein  
Khein dashes out the door for Erdrinneir’s room in answer.

DM  
Kwava shuts the door behind him and follows after the two, cursing all the while.

It takes the trio only a minute to reach Erdrinneir’s room from their current location in the noble’s apartments. Two guards stand in front of the doors. By their strict, business-like demeanor, Al and Khein can tell that the first son must be inside, presumably preparing for dinner.

Al  
The plot’s about to get kicked into overdrive because there’s only one thing Al can say that’ll move these guards. He just prays to the demon lord that his lover’s been reading his mind.

“Hey,” he snaps, “we just saw a drow covered in blood run out of Faidaeva’s room. Don’t just stand there--go check it out!”

DM: @Al  
The guards have been at the beck and call of the Vonnarcs too long to even think about letting Second Daughter Faidaeva get upset. They run off at full speed, leaving the doors unlocked to all those bearing the noble amulet of the Vonnarcs.

Kwava kicks open the door.

Medomai  
Medomai looks back over his naked shoulder but doesn’t stop riding the first son on the drow’s lavishly decked out bed. He’s tied Erdrinneir’s wrists to the sculpted bars of the headboard.

DM  
“Wha--what’s the meaning of this?” roars Erdrinneir in the last scraps of his dignity. “Aldinach! You bastard son of a--”

Medomai: @DM  
Medomai saves Erdrinneir the dignity and the trouble by affording him the most erotic of coup de grace’s, a vampire’s jugular-tearing kiss. He bites out the man’s windpipe as well for good measure.

“So it’s come to this,” says Medomai, spitting the dying man’s bloody flesh to the floor. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

He unstradles Erdrinneir’s soon-to-be corpse and hops lightly onto the floor by the neat stack of his gear.

Al: @Medomai  
“Remind me to kiss you.”

Two down, two to go. Tiryin, however, is as good as a nonentity compared to Alicavniss. Which leaves one question and less than one minute, “Would Ruran fuck Alicavniss?”

DM: @Al  
“Have you spent even a minute with them? Of course not.”

Khein  
“Then she’d be escorting Ruran back to the guest apartments. We have to hurry!”

Khein grabs everyone in close and casts a sphere of invisibility over the lot of them. The good news is, in thirty seconds or so, there’ll be so many guards swarming the halls that no one will notice the sounds of their sprinting.

DM  
In exactly thirty seconds, shouts ring down the halls, each guard warning the next of the Vonnarc murder, MURDERS(!) that have transpired. None of them notice the invisible sprinters, but in the two minutes it takes them to reach the guest apartments, the halls swarm with guards.

Al  
With everything to lose and everything to gain, Al bets it all. He enters his bloodrage inside Khein’s bubble and flings wide the doors.

DM: @Al  
Alicavniss stands beside Ruran in the common room with a line of six guards between them and the door. The guards jump at the doors’ sudden, seemingly autonomous opening. The first daughter does not, her narrowed eyes zeroing in on Al at the head of the group at once.

“So that’s how it, is it?”

Ruran  
“How what is?” Ruran squeaks, having jumped themself.

They squeeze the poppet in their lab coat pocket and cast mage armor for good measure.

Khein  
Khein doesn’t answer, instead open their mouth with an ethereal wail of electric rage. She casts her hastening spell on everyone but Alicavniss and the guards.

Medomai  
Medomai taps Al, Khein, and Kwava’s shoulders, “Links, in. Healing, up.”

Al  
Al roars through a bloody haze. He swings his electric-crackling sickles on the line of bullshit guards.

DM  
Al’s steel and electric whirlwind cuts down three of the six guards.

Kwava, accepting Khein’s rage himself, fires off five crackling arrows at Alicavniss. Four out of five hit their mark, punching into the first daughter down the centerline of her ribcage.

Two wide-eyed guards fall on Al with their rapiers. The last charges at Kwava with theirs. Only Kwava feels the business end of the tapered blade. His barkskin, however, deflects the worst of it.

The first daughter grunts at the arrow punctures, doubling over. She raises only her head. Her mouth spreads in a wide, red-leaking smile, “Fools.”

She vanishes from sight.

Ruran alone recognizes the spell, time stop.

Ruran  
“She’s stepped out of time!”

Ruran flies up under the ceiling, uncertain of what else to do.

Khein  
Khein’s eyes stretch wide in fear. She’s never seen Alicavniss go all out. She’s shook in the worst possible. Her electric wail waivers but doesn’t end.

Khein flings her arms wide, casting moment of greatness on all of her allies.

Medomai  
Medomai backs just outside the room but not far enough down the hall to be seen from the corridor. He prepares his latest and most powerful healing spell.

Al  
Al rains a maelstrom of cutting steel onto the two guards fool enough to try flanking him.

DM  
Al cuts through the guards like cheese.

Kwava glares directly at the final guard, “Run.”

As the guard takes off, he readies an attack.

Blood red and navy flash back into the common room. Alicavniss has returned, bloody but smiling, and surrounded by allies.

A snake-bodied giantess with six arms, a giant-sized sword in each arm, rains down steely death upon Al. He drops to the ground.

An eighteen-foot, lobster-like demon with four razor-sharp claws attached to four massive arms cuts and snaps at Khein. Khein falls, not dead but unconscious.

A horned, bat-winged succubus takes to the air, clawing at Ruran. Ruran’s magic armor is just strong enough to deflect her blows. For now.

Finally, a horned skeleton shrink-wrapped by a slimy, leather hide summoned just outside the room bites and claws at Medomai. It rends his flesh but doesn’t bring him down.

“This isn’t even my final form,” Alicavniss cackles, her fingers moving into yet another spell.

“It’ll have to do,” Kwava growls, firing five crackling arrows on the last vestiges of Khein’s electric song.

Two arrows fly wide, fizzing out as they whiz past her pointed ears. Three punch right between the eyes, burying into her brain.

Alicavniss falls back at the end of an arc of spewing blood. Her conjured demons vanish one by one before she hits the carpeted floor.

Medomai: @DM  
Medomai opens his mouth and looses his readied spell on the dying Al. Healing magic flows out from him in an audible breath and in through Al’s nose and mouth.

Al: @Medomai  
Al gasps and sputters back to life. He rolls onto his side in a fit of coughing.

Ruran  
Ruran holds their breath as they float down from the ceiling. Their hand trembles around the poppet in their deathgrip.

Medomai  
“Good to have you back, my bloodthirsty babe.”

With no time to waste, Medomai moves immediately onto Khein, breathing out and into her as well.

Khein: @Medomai  
Khein jerks back to life with a sputter and wheeze, fluids leaking from her overloaded eyes, nose, and mouth.

Al  
Al helps Khein up to her knees by the back of her mithral shirt with one hand. The other reaches for his blood-drenched sickle.

He crawls on all fours with one steel claw over to his sister. He grabs her sightless head by the white, bloodstained locks, and draws the steel through her neck.

DM  
The guard who lived returns. They storm down the hall with twelve more guards at their back. Each holds a hand crossbow at the ready, the tips of their bolts glistening with poison.

Al: @DM  
Al pushes up to a bloody seat on his knees. He holds the unmistakable head of the first daughter aloft.

DM: @Al  
Al’s calculated move is talismanic in effect. The guards freeze in mid-storm. Their crossbows waver in their trembling hands.

Ruran  
Ruran inhales sharply just to hold their breath again. With the death of the first daughter, the balance of power has shifted. Next in line is Erdrinneir or Faidaeva, who seemed on equally bad terms with Al. Unless...Al and the others have already gotten rid of the competition.

Khein  
Khein staggers up to her feet. She clears her throat, spitting a mouthful of her own blood. When she speaks, her voice is nothing but husked command, “Lower your weapons. That’s First Son Aldinach Vonnarc--show some bloody respect.”

Medomai  
Medomai shivers at the familiar, equally unmistakable authority in Khein’s voice. A slave, she is not.

Al  
“You heard my associate,” Al rolls up to his feet. His mouth spreads into a red-toothed grin. “Or would you rather hear it from her?”

He shoves his head-holding arm toward the squadron.

DM  
“Stand down,” barks a gruff voice from behind their ranks.

The guards lower their crossbows and part around Paingiver Drovanis.

“Master Tiryin requests your presence in the audience hall.”

Medomai: @DM  
“Tell him to wait until I’ve cleaned up the First Son and his associates.”

Al: @DM  
“Tell the Second Son we’ll be there. On our time.”


	46. Log 46

DM  
Where the audience hall was empty only days ago, now it is full of soldiers, servants, and slaves alike. Those without weapons crowd into the seating along either wall, standing on the chairs to get a glimpse over the living barrier of drow guards.

Only when Al, Khein, Medomai, and Ruran enter with Drovanis’ escort do the hall guards part around the foot of the central table. Second Son Tiryin sits not upon the black throne, standing instead before the table. Dhuma/Nolveniss, still alive and seemingly unharmed, stands beside him.

Ruran  
Ruran doesn’t know Nolveniss very well, but the sight of their teammate alive and well relieves a worry that vanishes the second it appears.

“N-Dhuma! Good to see you’re still with us.”

Medomai  
“Indeed.”

Medomai had assumed Tiryin would’ve killed Nolveniss as soon as the guards began their alert. The fact that he’d kept their teammate alive for bargaining shows they’d already underestimated his intelligence.

Dhuma  
“Cut the shit,” gripes Dhuma. “You were gonna leave me to die.”

Al  
“We’d assumed you could handle Tiryin on your own. Let’s be frank, Brother, you’re not much of a threat.”

That’s mostly true. Tiryin IS completely negible compared to the other siblings when on his own. But his challenge rating increases proportionally with the number of guards at his command.

But Nolveniss is smarter than to get himself captured. It’s one of the reasons Al’s going to enjoy killing him himself. Had he figured it out and gotten himself captured just to spite him and rob him of the revenge?

Khein  
Khein stops ten foot short of Tiryin and Dhuma, folding her arms in front of her chest, “What are your terms, Second Son?”

DM  
Tiryin’s eye twitches at Khein’s address, but his mouth spreads in a patronizing smirk, “Now, now, Khein, you’ve been a bitch here long enough to know we of noble blood don’t deal with slaves.”

Al: @DM  
“Don’t be daft,” Al throws an arm over Khein’s shoulders. “Khein here’s my speaker.”

DM: @Al  
Tiryin’s twitching eye becomes a pulsing vein in his temple.

“Very well,” he growls through a clenched-tooth smile. “Get out of my city and I won’t kill you.”

Dhuma: @DM  
“Actually, I have an amendment to that,” Dhuma shifts into their ‘true’ shape, the tall, lanky form of the lost Azrinae mage. “My name is Nolveniss, mage and noble of House Azrinae. This fool before you used to be my prisoner. As you can see, Tiryin, our positions have swapped--I’m not happy about that. Not. Happy. At all.”

They lace their fingers, cracking their knuckles in a stretch, “You do as Tiryin says. Or you cross this line, and die.”

A curtain of shimmering, searing violet fire roars up from the floor and cascades down from the ceiling. It spans the full length of the room, immolating every guard and servant unfortunate enough to be standing or seated in its path.

“YOUR CHOICE, ASSWIPE!”

Ruran  
“Let’s go,” Ruran shouts over the raging flame and screaming wounded, backing toward the door.

Medomai  
There’s no way they’re getting through that wall without significant damage. After all the healing they’d needed after the Alicavniss encounter, Medomai won’t have enough spells strong enough to bring them all back from near-death.

“Al, come on!”

Dhuma  
“AL, COME ON!”

Al  
Al stares through the curtain of violet flame at the shadowy, mocking figures of Tiryin and Nolveniss. Nolveniss had denied him, had gotten the last laugh. AGAIN.

“RAGH!” he charges at the flame.

Medomai: @Al  
“Al!” Medomai grabs his arm and pulls him close, whispering harshly in his ear. “You cross that line, I don’t have the magic to bring you back, and you die.”

Khein  
Khein grabs the other, fighting down the automatic impulse to slap the first son out of it.

“Before you can kill Tiryin or D-Nolveniss,” she adds.

Al: @Khein  
Al fights for as long as he can, but with every second, their words sink deeper, eroding the last of his strength.

“Fine,” he shrugs out from their grasp and turns toward Ruran and Kwava by the door. “I’m done. We’re done. We’re leaving.”

He stalks out without looking back.

DM  
The stalactites over Zirnakaynin drip like rain, perhaps tears, as you say your goodbyes to the glowing city of light in endless night. You follow Alicavniss’ map out of the city and into the cavern wilderness. After an exhausting eight hour trek over slippery rock, you’re only halfway there.

“The ground’s level here,” says Kwava. “Why don’t we stop to make camp? I’ll take the first watch.”

Ruran  
Ruran, about to fall to lead-limbed pieces on the cavern floor, lets out a weary cackle, “That sounds great. I’m just gonna...close my eyes...for a minute.”

They sink further to the ground with each word. By the time they’re on their hands and knees, they’re already snoring and flump onto their poppet-pocketed side.

Medomai  
Medomai, slumping against the chemically slick support of a stalagmite shakes his head at Ruran, astounded. That is the sweet sleep of the innocent or, more technically, the naive. For a necromancer, the half-drow is surprisingly just that. 

He sinks to the foot of the stone. His eyes rove to Al and Khein. Without a word, he pats the level ground on either side of him.

Al  
Al crashes to a seat beside Meda, grateful that he doesn’t have to make eye contact to do so. He’s done some reprehensible things, only eight hours since the last of them. Yes, they were done in the name of Zirnakaynin revenge and thus perpetrated in the Zirnakaynin way, but none of his original teammates besides that backstabbing drider-fucker Nolveniss are Zirnakaynian.

“I...owe you all an apology.”

Khein  
Khein looks deadpan from Al to the snoring Ruran and back.

DM  
“I’d like to hear this apology as much as anyone,” says Kwava from his post, “but shouldn’t you wait until everyone you’ve offended is conscious?”

Al: @DM  
“If I don’t get it off my chest now, I’m just gonna internalize the guilt, and what gets repressed in here never gets out.”

Medomai  
“Fine. Let’s hear it.”

Al  
“Kwava, Medomai, Ruran, if some part of you is listening right now, I’m sorry. I intentionally mislead you about my intentions and...effectively coerced you into murder--for revenge. Cool motives aside, it was still murder.”

DM: @Al  
“You do realize that as an EBI agent you’re going to get court-martialed for this, right?”

Khein  
“But everything was perpetrated in Zirnakaynin, where it’s all legal.”

DM: @Al  
“...is that true?”

Al: @DM  
“For high-ranking nobles it is, which I technically am.”

Now. Since he’d reinstated himself by killing off the majority who could say otherwise.

Medomai  
“Then I suppose that I accept your apology. But if you want to be with me, there has got to be trust and transparency. Got it?”

Al  
“I do, Meda, I do, and I’ve never wanted you more. Kwava?”

DM: @Al  
“I see where you’re coming from, but that’s not going to change my statement.”

Al: @DM  
“Welp, thanks for the understanding.”

That’s really all Al could ask for. He’d have to keep a jailbreak plot on the backburner.

Khein  
“That was thoroughly entertaining. I’m gonna go into meditation now. See you in four hours.”

\--/--

DM  
Once everyone has rested back to full health and mana, you’re able to continue the last eight hours of the trek. You follow the map to a large cavern filled with the ethereal moans of a heated wind.

Opposite the tight gap leading back toward Zirnakaynin rises an ancient, temple-like series of stepped platforms and wide, pale marble steps. Upon the cracked rocky ground stand a pair of iron statues, twin elves wrought at twice the scale. Crowning the platform rises a familiar looking archway—-an elf gate.

A vast crevasse, however, shears this chamber in twain, its inky depths splitting both the walls and ground with a fissure that falls away nearly a thousand feet to a rubble-strewn field infested with churning swarms of giant, carnivorous centipedes. 

Yet, a single path remains, a treacherous land bridge of wind-whipped stone stretching between shattered cliffs in defiance of the horrific death promised below.

Ruran  
“Does anyone want to try the bridge, or should I fly you all across?”

Medomai  
“I’ll take a lift, but where did Alicavniss say the gate key would be?”

Ruran: @Medomai  
“If I remember correctly, she thought it was hidden somewhere in this area.”

Al  
“Maybe we have to follow the statues’ eyes or something equally cryptic. And, uh, I’ll take that lift as well.”

Khein  
“I’ll hop on the end of that life line.”

Ruran  
“Alrighty then. Meda, you’re up first,” says Ruran, squatting down for him to sit on their shoulders or lock his arms around them.

Medomai  
As ridiculous as it looks, Medomai sits on the shorter, squatter Ruran’s shoulders to keep his hands free just in case, “See you on the other side.”

DM  
As soon as Ruran and Medomai fly past the end of the landbridge, there’s an ear-needling screak of metal on metal. The two iron elves turn their heads up at the flyers. Their heavy footfalls shake the cavern with bone-jarring force.

Ruran  
“NOPE,” Ruran flies back over the bridge instead of touching down.

They have spells for the living or the dead or the undead, and those things aren’t any of those.

Al  
“Khein, light me up,” says Al, casting clay skin on himself. His skin thickens and toughens in preparation for taking a whoop-ass beating. He steps onto the opposite end of the landbridge.

Khein  
Khein answers with an electric wail. She casts haste over all, whether they accept her rage or not.

DM  
The first iron elf tromps with its stone-shaking steps down the bridge after Ruran and Medomai. It makes it only halfway with its plodding run. It opens its mouth up at them with another screak.

A cloud of green gas billows out under Ruran and Medomai’s feet and shrouds the center of the bridge.

Medomai  
“I’m going to guess that’s poison,” Medomai readies a spell to remove it from anyone about to enter melee.

DM  
Kwava accepts Khein’s hasting, electric rage, and shoots five crackling arrows into the thin cloud at the iron elf.

Four arrows bounce harmlessly off the iron elf’s heavy plating. Only a single arrow finds its mark, and it is a doozy. It sinks deep, the iron elf twitching as the electricity continues to snap, crackle, and pop over its body.

The second iron elf tromps back to its original position on the cracked rock and goes still.

Ruran  
Ruran sets Medomai down on the safe side of the bridge, “I’m gonna look for the key.”

They cast detect magic and let the spell sit, expand.

Al  
Al answers only with a crack of his neck as he draws his sickles. Fully raged, he charges down the landbridge at the shrouded golem with a roar.

DM: @Al  
Blow after blow clangs harmlessly off the iron elf, but the twin sickles finally hook a vulnerable edge and shear through the heavy plates.

The poison cloud dissipates harmlessly.

Khein  
Khein flies out over the bridge on the wings of her crackling rage. She leaps hard, driving the swing of her falchion down its back.

DM: @Khein  
Sparks fly as the falchion scrapes then shears through the metal. The iron elf falls in two disfigured pieces off either side of the bridge. Half a gemstone bearing half a rune clatters onto the bridge, bouncing once, twice, off--

Al and Khein’s hands shoot out at the gemstone. Both seize it before it drops into the ravening centipede abyss.

Medomai  
Of course the key’s inside the iron giants. Fuck, “You guys go ahead. I’ll stay back and work my magickal healing fingers.”

DM  
Kwava, raging, answers by knocking another five crackling arrows into his bow. He stalks onto the bridge, firing on after the other at last iron elf. He reaches Al and Khein, bow empty.

All five clang harmlessly off the giant.

Ruran  
Ruran flies back out over the center of the bridge in preparation for catching any more falling gemstones or, worse, falling teammates.

Al  
Al charges down the last half of the bridge to the iron giant pretending to be an elf statue. He attacks in full, raging force.

DM: @Al  
Al’s crackling sickles rain electric Hell on the frozen giant, shearing deep gouges through its plates in showers of sparks. The electricity clings to its form, causing a cascade of twitches and pops.

Khein  
Khein flies in with a second diving slice at the giant.

DM  
After the massive damage sustained from Al’s assault, there’s no hope for the iron elf. Khein’s falchion finds a torn plate and rides the wound down to the ground, ripping the giant open.

The second half of the gemstone clacks and skitters across the cavern floor.

Medomai  
Medomai simply walks across the bridge and scoops up the fallen half, “Al, Khein, let’s see your half.”

DM  
Raising the two halves aloft causes both to glow with yellow radiance. The elf gate shimmers. As Al, Khein, and Medomai place the halves together, the shimmering yellow curtain peels back to reveal a wooded glen beyond.

Kwava looks at the others with a trace of a wry smile, “Welcome to Kyonin.”


	47. Log 47

DM  
You step through the portal into a clearing of vivid green at the heart of an ancient forest with the delicate marble arch of the gate at its center. Ruran and Medomai are hit with a wave of nausea from the magic turbulence of reactivating said gate.

The treeline rustles. Dozens of elven and drow soldiers step into the clearing, lowering their bows and arrows. The palest-faced elf, dressed not in alchemically-treated leaf armor but sumptuous wizard’s robes, keeps on stepping right into Kwava’s face. She seizes him by the shoulders, “Kwava!”

She pulls him into a very close hug and continues a rush of words into his shoulder, “Telandia didn’t tell me you were the agent sent through the corrupted portal, the bastard! Gods, I’m so glad you’re alright. Maybe it was for the best. I--”

The red-haired wizard has finally raised her green eyes off Kwava long enough to see you. She pulls back, blushing furiously. She clears her throat with a fit of coughing, “Begging your pardon, I’m Agent Vilasti. I was sent to investigate the portal’s reactivation and teleport you back to the Iadara headquarters. Director-in-Chief Telandia Edasseril will debrief you themself.”

Al  
“Great,” says Al. At least he’d be getting it over with to the highest elven authority in the land. “Here, you might want this, then.”

Khein  
Khein walks with Al to hand over their shared half of the keystone.

DM: @Khein  
Vilasti’s eyes widen even greener with understanding.

“You came through on half a keystone?”

Ruran  
“Nope, nope,” retches Ruran. Despite being head down and doubled over, they manage to point up in the right direction at Medomai.

Medomai  
Medomai, gripping the marble arch for support, stands as upright as he can and holds out the other half.

DM  
Vilasti nods in thanks and takes the other half. Immediately, the broken rune and the portal glow again with yellow radiance, “I never thought I’d live to see these...ahem, right, well, is everyone up for a second teleportation? This one ought to be easier on your systems,” she nods at Ruran and Medomai, “but we can escort you back through Fangwood if you aren’t.”

Ruran: @DM  
“I’m fine, no worries,” Ruran straightens up, hands folded over their stomach just in case.

Medomai: @DM  
Medomai, smiling through the last of the nausea, throws an arm over Ruran’s shoulders, “We’re up for it.”

DM  
“Excellent! Oh, one more thing, kindly keep your weapons sheathed once we’re in HQ. Now,” Vilasti holds out both hands, “link hands, please.”

Kwava takes one of them, “It’s good to see you, too, Vilasti.”

Al  
Al takes Vilasti’s other hand.

Khein  
Khein takes Al’s.

Ruran  
Ruran takes Kwava’s other hand with a curious, pensive glance from him to his wizard friend.

Medomai  
Medomai takes Khein and Ruran’s hands, closing the circle.

DM  
Vilasti doesn’t notice Ruran’s glance. Her eyes are close, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she murmurs the magic words.

Vilasti’s as good as her word. The magic of her teleportation spell fills you like a breath. You fade away with it and reappear as it leaves you, warm and light.

It helps that bright, glorious sunshine streams through a canopy of leaves on high and washes over the mossy, gnarled-root ground in waves of gold and soft shade. Here and there it refracts, casting rainbows through the windows of graceful towers and austere buildings with exquisitely carved wooden eaves. 

Flocks of colorful birds flit through the air, and you can just make out a recurring melody in their song that brings to mind lazy summer days and hours of indolent pleasure. The sound of countless burbling fountains fills the air, and the scents of pristine woodland and delicate wildflowers grace every intake of breath.

Elves and drow, however, hustle across the HQ central park, or gather in small huddles at food stalls built into massive tree trunks to talk in hushed tones. Vilasti herself spares not a second, immediately climbing to the first landing of the largest building’s wide wooden stair, “This way, please.”

Vilasti leads you into Viridian Hall, an airy, towering structure of smooth, pale green stone. Its weighty silence, broken only by the disembodied echoes of footfalls and voices, is akin to a temple’s. Your skin prickles with the unshakable feeling of being watched down through your flesh to the aura of your heart.

The wizard, seemingly inured to such invasive magic wards, steps lively to a door on the ground floor. The guards part immediately and fling wide the silver doors.

Light filters in from above through wide crystal windows to focus on a dais a hundred yards distant. The long stone table at its heart glows a pale green under the crossed beams. At the head of the table is a throne-like chair of living vines and woven, wooden branches. 

Seated upon the director’s throne is a regal drow with an intense, solid-silver gaze. Telandia wears a cap at a jaunty angle on their brow, their head completely shaved except for a single silver braid that falls over their leaf-armored shoulder. The icy curve of their mouth is less smile and more invitation to challenge with the certainty of the challenger’s humiliating defeat, “Kwava, Al, Ruran, Medomai, and ally, welcome to HQ. Please, sit down. We’re all very keen to hear your mission report from Zirnakaynin.”

The director snaps their liquid black fingers at a pair of interns taking notes in the shadowed corner, “Refreshments.”

They laugh, a ring as cold and metallic as a bell in winter, as the interns take off at a full sprint, a whirlwind of flying paper and quills in their wake, “Sorry about that. We knew you were coming, of course. It simply didn’t occur to me that you might need sustenance. Now. The report.”

Al  
Al, who had taken a seat, stands up. What went down in Zirnakaynin was his fault, so he’s the one to give the account. He doesn’t hold anything back--not out of guilt, which he doesn’t feel. He actually holds out a bit of hope seeing as Telandia is a Darklands elf themself. Not every Darklands city could come close to Zirnakaynin’s particular level of political fuckery but they probably had the aspirations.

DM: @Al  
Telandia doesn’t bat an eye at even the most reprehensible acts of the account. At the end of Al’s mission report, they merely nod, slow and pensive, over steepled fingers.

Vilasti, however, couldn’t hide her dropped jaw and saucer-wide eyes to save her life. Kwava evades her stare by never lifting his eyes from the tabletop.

Khein  
“It helps, all that’s retroactively legal in Zirnakaynin now that Al’s retaken his place as First Son of House Vonnarc.”

DM: @Khein  
“Good to know,” murmurs Telandia. With the clap of their hands, their face returns to its brilliant, nearly blinding smile. “Thanks for the comprehensive report--we’ll be filing that at once. That’s all for all. Vilasti, take our agents and allies to housing, won’t you?”

Ruran  
“But what about Allevrah? She’s already moved her forces out from the city. If she’s planted the Earthfall glyphs--”

DM: @Ruran  
Telandia cuts Ruran off with a shrug as extravagant as the discarding of a cloak but as sharp as a knife to the throat, “You may’ve acted lawfully by Zirnakaynin standards, but you’ve proven yourselves to be loose cannons, thereby removing yourselves from a case of this importance and urgency.”

“Director Telandia, forgive me for being so bold,” says Kwava, “but this is our case. We’ve been on this mission since Riddleport. Nobody knows this c--”

The director taps a single, ringing nail against the table top, “You know, Kwava, I thought I’d be doing you a favor in skipping the formality of a court-martial. If this is not, in fact, a favor, I’ll have the interns write you up and we can begin the dog-and-pony process immediately.”

Kwava lowers his gaze back to the tabletop where he should’ve left it.

Medomai  
Medomai stands up from the table. They’re clearly done here, “Thanks for your time, Director. You have a good day.”

DM  
With that, the meeting is ended. Vilasti takes you to the housing quarters across central park in a silence notably frosty despite the park’s rampant warmth and sunlight.

Your apartments in the wood and stone complex are small and minimalist compared to those in the Vonnarc estate, but you have a room-wide view of the park. The interplay of gentle sunbeams might even count as decor of their own.

“Meals will be delivered at six, twelve, and six. Your payment for the last mission will accompany the evening meal. But you’re free to come and go as you please--there’s more to Iadara, even Kyonin than HQ has to offer. You’ll receive a summons whenever the director deems you worthy to return to the service.”

Al  
“Thanks, Vilasti,” Al walks deeper into the apartments in search of the bathroom, stripping of gear and clothes with every step.

The fact that his actions would definitely put them on dog-watching duty for the next few months could bear thinking about after a nice long soak. The food+money trolley would definitely sugar that pill, so it could wait till after that, too.

DM: @Al  
Vilasti gives Al a perfunctory nod and leaves you to your business without another word.

Khein  
Khein looks slow and pointed from the clothing trail to the bathroom up to Medomai, “A bath sounds nice.”

Medomai: @Khein  
Medomai’s hard stare drops and rises in a slow once-over, “It does. I imagine the tubs here are rather roomy.”

Khein: @Medomai  
Khein walks right up into Medomai’s face. She takes his lapels in her hand, “Don’t imagine. Let’s find out.”

She leads him out of the common room after her.

Ruran  
Ruran flops down onto the simple sofa. “I guess I’ll just wait to take mine.”

Medomai  
“I’d recommend taking a walk, a very long walk if you have the energy, or a nap if you don’t.”

DM  
“I’d be more than happy to show you around,” says Kwava, already backing away to the door.

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran picks themself up off the sofa. Yes, they’re weary, but Al, Khein, and Medomai clearly need the apartment more than they do. They join Kwava at the door with a faded smile, “Maybe, maybe we could just sit in the park and talk?”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava smiles back, “That sounds lovely.”

\--/--

DM  
Kwava takes Ruran to the nearest bench, a seat of living, woven roots. He grabs two veggie-dogs and two fruit icees from a vendor for you to snack on as you watch the graceful arcs of the bubbling fountain before you.

“I didn’t know if you liked ketchup, so there’s only mustard on these.”

Ruran  
“Thanks, I’ve never had either,” they peel back the leaves and take a cursory bite. 

“Oh, oh my lords, that’s delicious,” they exclaim around a mustardy mouthful of soft bread and veggie-dog. They wash it down with a brain-freeze-inducing gulp of icee. “Ow.”

DM  
“Slow down,” Kwava laughs. He sets his veggie-dog on the bench and reaches out toward their temple, “May I?”

Ruran  
Ruran nods, wincing.

DM  
Kwava massages their temple.

Ruran  
Oh. Oh. Ruran can’t even feel the brain-freeze anymore over the distinct points of heat and pressure under Kwava’s fingers. Their face flushes.

“Ha ha,” they cackle weakly.

DM  
“Do you want me to stop?”

Ruran  
“N-no.”

DM  
He doesn’t. Instead, Kwava lowers his own head so their foreheads are nearly touching.

Ruran  
“Kwava?”

DM  
“Yeah?”

Ruran  
“What’s with, uh, you and Vilasti?”

DM  
Kwava lowers his hand to Ruran’s shoulder. He pulls back just far enough to face them, “Vilasti and I joined the EBI at the same time. We were partners for years. She wanted us to be more, but I was involved with someone at the time.”

Ruran  
“And, uh, now?”

DM  
“Maybe you could tell me.”

Ruran  
Ruran inhales sharply. Oh. They clear their throat with a nervous cackle, “We’re...we’re coworkers again. Does the EBI, uh, allow d-dating?”

DM  
“It does, actually, by not mentioning it at all.”

Ruran  
“Then,” Ruran cackles, “Kwava, would you like to date me?”

DM  
His fingers find Ruran’s on the bench between them, “I would, Ruran, if you’d have me.”

Ruran  
When Ruran can finally speak, their voice has fallen to a breathless whisper, “I would.”


	48. Log 48

DM  
Al, Medomai, and Khein had better be finished by the time Ruran and Kwava come back to the apartment from their tour of Iadara’s central park.

Ruran  
Ruran raps their knuckles against the door, a slight sheen of sweat on their palm, “Can we come in now?”

Their stomach rumbles despite their trepidation, or perhaps strengthened by it. It’s almost time for the evening meal. All that walking around the park but mostly being on edge around Kwava, THEIR DATE, has long since burned through the veggie-dog and fruit icee.

Al  
“Just a second!” Al shouts through the door. He opens it several seconds into ten minutes later with a cheery smile and even more sweaty dishevelment than he’d started with. He is, however, clothed.

Medomai  
Medomai lounges on the couch clothed only in the pieces of his armor, reapplying his makeup in a compact mirror. Rather than look up, he turns the mirror just enough to flash Ruran and Kwava his perpetual smile.

Khein  
Khein leans back against a living column of tree trunk in both her clothes and mithral. Those and the tree help hide the fact that her legs are still shaking. 

She sips water from a wooden cup. Gotta keep those fluids coming if she doesn’t want to get dehydrated. 

“Have a nice time?” Khein rasps.

Ruran  
Ruran can’t wipe the grin or the flush off their face, “Yeah, it was really nice.”

They squeeze Kwava’s hand in theirs. They couldn’t imagine a better first date.

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava smiles back. Before he can say anything, a drow and an elven intern push a long trolley laden with covered, clay dishes on top and four wooden chests on the bottom toward the door. Cold, hard coin clinks through the wood with each rattle.

Al  
“Thank the Lords, I’m starving,” Al waves the trolley in.

DM: @Al  
The interns park the trolley beside your dining table, “We’ll come back for the trolley in two hours. Is there anything else we should get you?”

Medomai  
“We’re gonna need a whole new set of bath towels and robes. And bedding, for all the beds.”

Khein  
“Do you offer cleaning services?”

DM  
The interns promise to send a cleaning crew. They clear out, leaving you to a lavish, mostly fresh-food dinner.

Only an hour after they leave, there’s a knock at the door.

Ruran  
Ah, the cleaners. Ruran goes to get the door.

DM: @Ruran  
Nine mithral-helmed warriors armed with rapiers and longbows stand in the doorway, “Death to the enemies of Wintercourt.”

Nine rapiers stab into Ruran’s chest. A red spot blooms on the back of their labcoat. They drop to the ground, dead.

“Ruran!” Kwava screams.

Medomai  
Medomai leaps up from his seat, book and chair clattering to the floor. He points a finger at Ruran’s fallen body, “Not today.”

Healing magic flows out from his breath and into the half-drow.

Khein  
Khein’s gasp of shock grows into her tell-tale electric wail. She leaps off her lounge chair and slashes her falchion at the first murderer up.

DM: @Khein  
Khein rends the elf in twain in a crackling burst of steel.

Al  
Al’s in a full-blooded rage before he’s risen from his seat, sickles crackling with Khein’s electricity. He flies at the warriors with a low roar under her wailing song.

DM  
Al’s scything whirlwind cuts down two of the warriors where they stand. Their bodies fly apart in gory bits, clearing the way for their fellows.

The warriors literally fly into the room and up beneath the ceiling. They’ve swapped their murder rapiers for bows and fire down upon the living.

Most of the missiles bounce harmless off everyone’s re-positioned armor, but Khein and Kwava each take arrows above the knee.

Kwava accepts Khein’s electric rage with a measure of black and glacial fury. He fires four arrows at the nearest flying warrior. They stake the elf through their body and nail them to the ceiling above.

Ruran  
Medomai’s healing breath draws Ruran up from the floor on limp, dangling limbs. They spy a warrior through a slit in white curtain of their unloosed hair. Ruran raises their poppet, “Die.”

DM: @Ruran  
The poppet seethes with ethereal gray flame. The spied warrior’s feet catch with that same spellfire. The elf writhes and screams as the burning gray crawls up their body, going limp only once the flames hit their waist.

The death spell continues to climb until the floating corpse is fully wreathed in gray.

The rest, bearing witness to the wrecking ball of death and destruction that is this party, fly down toward the open doors, affording Al and Khein opportunity attacks.

Al: @DM  
Al takes his parting shot, slicing with as much power and accuracy as he can imbue into his sickles.

Khein: @DM  
Khein swings to kill, only letting her wail-song fade once the warriors are well and truly too fast and far to hit.

DM  
Al and Khein take down two more. The surviving two vanish into the chugged invisibility of potions.

Kwava runs across the room to Ruran’s side, “Are you alright?”

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran blinks at Kwava, their feeling returning drop by drop. They lower their poppet ad nod, numbly, “Y-yeah, thanks Meda.”

Medomai  
Medomai offers Ruran a grimmer version of his typical smile, “Anytime.”

He crouches down beside the nearest intact elf and removes their mithral helm, “...I have no idea who this is.”

DM: @Medomai  
“Neither do I, but they work for the EBI. I’ve seen them around here. I’ve never heard of Wintercourt, but it sounds like one of Allevrah’s renegade groups.”

Khein  
The EBI’s been compromised. Not only has it been infiltrated by Allevrah’s agents, but they know everyone here was on the case against her, “We’re not safe here.”

Al  
“Where else can we go? That’s not a rhetorical question. Who’s got some ideas?”

Ruran  
“We should...probably report this.”

DM  
“We are definitely reporting this,” says Kwava as he moves around the room systematically un-helming every corpse and decapitated head. He shakes his head over each one. He doesn’t know the names of any of these elven and drow agents.

Medomai  
“To the director?”

They’d given the mission report directly to the director. That’s what had gotten them into this. Although Agent Vilasti and those interns had been there as well.

Khein  
“Telandia will find out eventually,” if they don’t already know.

Al  
“Then we should probably get going unless we’ve got more corpse desecration planned.”

Ruran  
“I swore that off weeks ago.”

DM  
“I think he was talking about me,” Kwava says dryly.

With everyone geared up to go, he guides you back toward Viridian Hall. You’re met at the entrance by Vilasti with a group of twelve guards at her back. She runs to Kwava but stops just short of embracing him. She sets her hands on either temple instead, “Thank the gods you’re alright--we just got word of the attack.”

Medomai  
“No, no, we’ve been thoroughly traumatized.”

DM: @Medomai  
“Oh my gods, we’re so sorry--the EBI, Telandia is so sorry. We’ve actually come to escort you to the most safe and secure location in Iadara while we deal with this.”

Kwava’s eyes narrow to violet slits, “What place would that be, exactly?”

Vilasti flushes beet red, “Paradise Hotel.”

Khein  
Paradise Hotel? Unless that’s a euphemism for some kind of horrific subterranean labyrinth/dungeon, that doesn’t sound safe or secure at all.

Al  
“You’re putting us up in a hotel?”

DM: @Al  
“Paradise Hotel is a maximum security detention center for political prisoners,” says Kwava, his glare undiminished.

Ruran  
“You’re putting us in prison.”

DM  
“Only technically,” Vilasti winces. “You’ll be free to come and go, but you’ll just need to be accompanied by guards when you’re on the outside. And when you leave your chambers. It’s all very comfortable though. You can customize your chambers to your liking--we’ll provide you a catalogue.”

Medomai  
Well, it isn’t exactly like prison. And they’ve nowhere else to go, “Alright, I’ll bite. But you’ve got to tell us everything you know about ‘Wintercourt’.”

DM: @Vilasti  
Vilasti quirks a brow in puzzlement, “‘Wintercourt’? Perhaps that’s what the renegades have decided to call themselves now?”

Khein  
The renegades are organizing. Maybe Paradise Hotel really would be the safest place for them, “I’ll go.”

Al  
“If we’re all agreed, we should probably get out of the open,” before Wintercourt takes another potshot at them. Or worse, a real attack now that the renegades had gotten a gauge of their abilities.

Ruran  
“I’m in,” says Ruran, taking Kwava’s hand. “Let’s go.”

DM  
You, Vilasti, and the guards link hands in a teleportation circle right there on the front steps of Viridian Hall. You close your eyes. When you open them, you’re standing in a large antechamber of polished marble, its spotless walls rising to a domed ceiling above. Stone statues of enormous crystal-winged wasps decorate/flank its towering, unopened pair of double doors. 

At the opposite end of the spacious entrance hall stands a doorway filled by nothing but a shimmering golden curtain. Despite its gauzy, transparent material, you see nothing beyond its softly fluttering folds.

“The guards will stay here,” says Vilasti, “but the real Paradise Hotel lies beyond the curtain.”

Medomai  
“Once we enter, are we about to find it very hard to leave?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Only if you’re addicted to luxury or safety or comfort or something like that.”

Khein  
“Do we have to share the cell?”

DM: @Khein  
Vilasti flushes, “That’s the thing, Paradise Hotel has been set up like any hotel. You’ll find your rooms beyond, your keys in your pocket once you pass through the curtain. But there are also common areas--the front lounge is one of them.”

Al  
“So, that’s a yes. Who else is in here?”

DM: @Al  
“A pair of siblings. I don’t have the details that Director Telandia could give you, but you’re free to talk to them yourself. They’re harmless here--we’ve repressed their magic.”

Ruran  
“Is our magic going to be repressed in here?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Not, ah, not unless there’s an altercation between you and the siblings or between each other. Even then, it’s only until you’re back on good behavior. Is there anything else?”

Kwava looks at each of you. At the shake of your heads, he looks back at Vilasti, “That’ll be all, thanks.”

“Take care, Kwava--and everyone! We-we’ll try to sort this out as soon as possible,” Vilasti hurries out through the doors in a red-faced fluster.

The guards remain behind. Six take positions along either wall behind each of the wasps.

Medomai  
Medomai holds an arm out to Al, “Shall we?”

Khein  
Khein strides past him through the curtain. She’s ready for that room key and another bath.

Al  
Al takes Medomai’s arm with a wry grin, “Let’s. It’s about time we treated ourselves to a stay at a luxury inn.”

Ruran  
Ruran, who hasn’t let go of Kwava’s hand, gives it a little squeeze and tugs him on after the others.

DM  
The curtain flutters shut behind you, transforming into empty space of a large, airy open room. Light filters in from an opening in the ceiling and softly glowing lanterns hanging in the false, starry night. Delicate, sheer tapestries hang suspended from marble pillars.

The center of the room is a wide common area, decorated with potted plants around a circular pool and fountain burbling in the exact center of the room.

Thick green curtains drape the entrances to four corridors extending north, south, east, and west. A small cadre of illusory elven servants bustle silently up and down the corridors on hotel business.

Two non-elven humanoids, presumably the guests, recline on pool chairs under the moon and starlight streaming down from the oculus. One a is horned, bat-winged, and whip-tailed gender neutral succubus. Her thick, violet-black curls flutter softly around her in the illusory wind. Her shimmery, purple-red skin is bare except for the sheer tapestry she’s wrapped around herself like a towel.

Levi: @DM  
The other is a bat-winged, goat-horned, and beast-legged genderfluid incubus. In recline, their purple-red curls form a fluttering halo around their sharply cut face. Unlike their sibling, the incubus’ tapestry-wrapped, violet-black skin glints coldly under the moonlight.

Medomai  
Medomai walks right up to the recliners around the pool and flops down into one, “Good evening, fellow guests of Paradise.”

If they’re going to be here for a while, there’s no reason not to meet the siblings, demonic though they apparently be.

Levi: @Medomai  
Levi sits up slowly on their elbows. Their garnet, snake-pupiled eyes flit from guest to guest. Their jaw loosens, drops. No, these aren’t the shadowform yes-men on the hotel staff.

They shake their sibling’s shoulder, “Qildra. Qildra, wake up.”

DM: @Levi  
Qildra cracks a golden, snake-pupiled eye. Her pupil dilates. She pushes all the way up on her hands, “Well, fuck me sideways. What are you kids in for?”

Khein  
“Assassinations and the overthrow of a noble ruling house in Zirnakaynin.”

Al  
Al glances sidewise at Khein, but he doesn’t say anything. Other than make everyone’s introductions.

Ruran  
Ruran offers only a weak cackle in rebuttal.

Levi  
“Nice. I’m Levi, they/them. This is my sibling Qildra, she/her.”

DM  
Qildra takes Khein’s hand in hers, “It is SO good to meet you, and I’m not just saying that because we’ve been locked away for two months with only each other to snip at.”

Medomai  
Medomai rolls onto his side, propping his elbow up for a better look at the snack of a incubus beside him, “So. What brings you to Paradise?”

Levi: @Medomai  
Levi grins at the half-elf dhampir’s overt once-over. They sit up all the way to afford the whole group a better look at what they could be tangling with while they’re stuck in the slammer together, “Have you heard of something called ‘Wintercourt’?”

Khein  
“Yes,” effectively two seconds ago, “but what is it?”

DM: @Khein  
“It’s the secret group of elves and drow manipulating, some might even say controlling, the EBI from the shadows. The asswipes had the gall to set up in our backyard. We tried to wipe them out, of course, but like the worst shits they had connections.”

Al  
“Was there an Allevrah Azrinae among them?”

DM: @Al  
“Possibly. We didn’t stop to take names, just kick ass. They had a cleric with them who overpowered us and a wizard who teleported the entire crime scene from the Abyss to some secretive EBI facility to charge us as infiltrators and keep us here for ‘knowing too much’.”

Levi: @DM  
“Even though we know jack shit about anything.”

Ruran  
“Maybe not. I mean, maybe you know more than you think you do. Excuse us, can we get a quick team huddle?”

Levi  
“By all means,” Levi reclines back down on their pool chair. “We’ll only be here for an eternity.”


	49. Log 49

DM  
You manage to secure a privacy huddle behind a green curtain. The staff, though illusory, appears well-programmed in hotel etiquette and discreetly alter their routes to avoid you.

Ruran: @DM  
“I have an idea--more of a gamble, really.”

Medomai  
“Let me guess: if it doesn’t pay off we’re going to be put on the EBI’s most wanted and get imprisoned here for real?”

Ruran: @Medomai  
“Yeees, probably.”

Khein  
Khein, for one, didn’t liberate herself and revenge-kill the majority of her slave masters just to twiddle her thumbs in a black-tie prison, “Let’s hear it.”

Ruran: @Khein  
“Wintercourt has to be connected to Allevrah--that’s the only thing we could’ve gotten attacked for. These demons know where to find them. I say, we break the demons out, get them to take us to the Wintercourt base, and get moving on the Allevrah case without EBI sanction.”

Al  
“I’m down, but what if Wintercourt’s already relocated? The demons said they’d been here for two months.”

Ruran  
“It’s a risk, but they might’ve left something behind. We have nothing and we’re running out of time. I think it’s worth it.”

Medomai: @Ruran  
“We’re doing this, but can I get eight hours to recoup these spells?”

Ruran: @Medomai  
“Um, yeah, sure, that’s a good idea.”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava squeezes Ruran’s shoulder, “I like these shots you’re calling. Shall we let the demons in on the plan?”

Ruran: @DM  
“Yes.”

When they get back to the pool, its fountain, and the two obscenely attractive, barely clad demons lounging around it, Ruran breaks their half-baked plan down for them: “We have our own beef with Wintercourt. If you promise to get us there and let us question them, we’ll help you take back your backyard.”

Levi  
Levi pushes all the way up to a seat, swinging their legs off the pool chair. They clasp their hands under their chin, pointer fingers steepled over their frown, “First off, great. Second off, maybe you haven’t noticed, but we’re locked up in the most secure detention facility this side of multi-realm.”

DM  
“Sorry to bring the rain, but let me break this security system down for you,” says Qildra, flapping up from her pool chair. She remains hovering and spreads her palm, conjuring an illusory blueprint of Paradise Hotel:

“This entire facility is actually a single magical artifact that fabricates a seamless false reality for those inside it, but illusions aren’t even the half of it. We’re locked down dimensionally--no teleporting--and sympathetically. See, there’s an enchantment here so you lose your will to leave any time you come too physically close to the exit, which is hidden by multiple layers of illusion.”

Medomai  
“Say we could penetrate the illusion and override the compulsion. What then?”

DM: @Medomai  
“Aren’t we getting high in the hypotheticals. Assuming, assuming, assuming, there’s still the dimensional lock keeping us from teleporting. We’d have to get by the guards and out of the facility unnoticed--just long enough to disappear.”

Khein  
“Dimensional lock is just a spell. Counter it long enough…”

Al  
“--and we wouldn’t even have to step out in the open.”

Medomai: @Al  
“That, I can handle myself.”

Ruran  
“I...have another idea. Enchantments and illusions can’t affect you while you’re asleep.”

Levi  
“You want us to put ourselves to sleep?”

Ruran: @Levi  
“Y-yes, then I’m going to make you look like you’re dead.”

DM  
“We’ve tried the ‘dead demon’ approach. The guards didn’t buy it for a Hells’ second.”

Medomai  
“That was before you had us.”

Levi: @Medomai  
“Fair enough. When’s this going down?”

Khein  
“Eight hours.”

DM: @Khein  
Qildra’s bare feet touch back down on the tile, “I must say, I find your misplaced optimism...entertaining. See you in eight hours and however long it takes you to wake us up.”

Al  
“Quick question--who do we see about food in this place?”

Ruran  
“You’re hungry right now?”

Al: @Ruran  
“Medomai, Khein, and I are all staving off the very real possibility of dehydration right now.”

Levi  
“There’s a resupplying mini-fridge in your rooms. Go through the menu on the dresser, tap whatever you like, and bam! It’s in the fridge, cold or hot.”

Al: @Levi  
“Perfect, thanks.”

DM  
Eight hours later, the thoroughly rested and magickally replenished Ruran, Al, Medomai, Khein, and Kwava find Qildra and Levi slumbering peacefully on the same chairs by the pool and fountain. This time, Qildra sports a very practical suit of studded leather armor enhanced by an assortment of shiny chains and colorful jewels. A wickedly sharp rapier hangs from her bedazzled leather belt.

Levi: @DM  
Levi’s decked out in a subtler but equally flattering suit. Their adamantine plate conforms to their fit, athletic form. It matches the adamantine blade of the scythe hanging between their violet-black wings.

Ruran  
Ruran whips out their disguise kit--it adds a practical touch to their disguising spells. They give it their all for the next twenty minutes.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran’s history of corpses is put to excellent use. Twenty minutes later and you’re looking at the appropriately desecrated bodies of a pair of demons who’d tangled with an elite team of killers who favor slashing weapons enhanced by electricity and the odd arrow.

Al  
“Is that really what people look like after we get through with them?”

Medomai  
“If they were all this attractive, yeah.”

Khein  
“They are obscenely attractive, aren’t they?”

DM  
“Can we just get on with this?” asks Kwava.

Ruran  
“Yes,” Ruran walks out from the central chamber, between the pillars, and into the false night.

DM: @Ruran  
As Vilasti promised, neither the compulsion to stay nor illusory terrain affects Ruran. The false night dissolves into bare marble wall and shimmering golden curtain.

Kwava picks up Qildra’s “corpse” and joins Ruran at the curtain.

Al  
Al hefts Levi’s body up in his arms as gently as he can to avoid breaking their all-important slumber.

Medomai  
Medomai walks through the curtain, his fingertips moving in preparation for his spellcasting.

DM: @Medomai  
The elven guard, with no need of sleep, have maintained their posts on either wall of the antechamber. They make no move to stop Medomai, acknowledging him only with the tracking of their eyes.

Khein  
Khein walks through after him, covered in painted blood. She waves her hands at the guards with a tight smile, “Don’t worry, it’s not mine, but we’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands--one the illusory hotel staff aren’t equipped to handle.”

DM: @Khein  
The nearest two guards approach Khein, “What happened?”

Ruran  
Ruran salutes a pointer finger at Kwava and Al. It’s go time. And somehow, they’re the one calling the shots.

Al  
Al walks through the curtain, body in hand.

DM: @Al  
The sleep works just like a charm. Al and Kwava both manage to pass their parcels through the curtain without incurring its passive-aggressive magical wrath.

This time, all the guards step off the wall. There’s a chorus of muttered, Elvish, “fuck”s.

“Stay here, we’ll get the real cleaning crew,” says a guard.

They take a buddy and work on opening the massive stone doors. Two more approach Al and Kwava. They stow their weapons to pick up the bodies.

Al: @DM  
Seconds before the guards reach them, Al drops Levi onto the floor, “Oops.”

DM: @Al  
Kwava gives Qildra the same. The hard landing is more than enough to wake the demons.

Qildra pops up on her bat-like wings. She spreads her arms, the first curves of a conjuration circle sparking from her fingertips. They fizzle out immediately, “Where’s that dimensional counterspell?”

You have the attention of all the guards. They draw their weapons.

Medomai  
“Working on it,” there’s an undertone of magic in Medomai’s words. He looses his spell of dispel magic onto the entire, giant artifact of Paradise Hotel.

DM: @Medomai  
Medomai can only tell that it takes by the slight, magical give under his fingertips.

Qildra flexes her fingers again. This time, the glyphs of her conjuration sweep from her fingers into a full ring. The second the circle closes, a portal blinks open inside its circumference, “Go, go, go!”

Khein  
Khein takes a leap of faith through the demon’s blinking hole.

DM: @Khein  
Khein lands on her feet in what once might have been a pleasant garden. It’s now filled with all manner of filth and refuse. A great deal of shit is heaped in front of a door leading into a central tower and about forty feet below an upper-floor window--someone’s been dumping the manor refuse right out into Levi and Qildra’s backyard. The ambient spores heavy in the Abyssal air have taken to the filth with speed.

Four masses of the reeking slime given vague shape by tangled vines rise up nine feet from the ruined ground on two, trunk-like legs each.

Khein: @DM  
“Shit!” Khein’s curse grows into an electric wail. The others had better get their asses through the hole. In the meantime, she swings her crackling falchion at the nearest heap of walking shit.

DM: @Khein  
Khein deals a whopping blow to the steaming pile of walking shit, but its green-oozing guts crackle with her electricity and partially seal back up.

Just as the shambling shitmounds get in striking range of Khein, Qildra’s portal blinks.

Levi  
Levi flies through the portal on their bat-like wings. They flash Khein a radiant smile. And swing their scythe into the semi-wounded shitmound.

DM: @Levi  
Levi’s wicked scythe finishes the job, slicing the mound into a dozen round shit-wheels.

Ruran  
Ruran points their poppet at the next shitmound, “Die.”

Their poppet lights with ethereal gray flame.

DM: @Ruran  
The shitmound catches fire. Its slimey vines writhe as it screams the fibrous, ripping shriek of a falling tree.

Al  
Al leaps through the portal and dances into a whirlwind of steel on the next shitmound.

DM: @Al  
Al’s dual sickles nearly take the wet, stinking heap down.

Khein  
“Medomai, can you get that?” Khein intones. She drives her falchion down on the second remaining shitmound. This time, she skips the lightning.

DM: @Khein  
Even without the electricity, Khein’s raging drive nearly shreds the mound in twain, but it hangs on by its last, gloopy threads.

Medomai  
Medomai flips a dagger into either hand, “Absolutely vile.”

He throws them both at Al’s wounded stinker.

DM  
The daggers thunk deep into the shit. The mound goes down without a mighty, wet crash.

Four arrows fly through the portal. They plunge into the last remaining shit. It topples to the ground with a slimey splatter.

Kwava strides through the portal, lowering his bow. His nose wrinkles at the stench.

Qildra is the last through the portal. It winks out of existence behind her. Her golden eyes stretch wide then narrow to slits of pure, golden death, “What. The fuck. Did they do. To my geraniums?!”

Levi: @DM  
Levi pats their sibling’s shoulder, “Don’t you worry, Qildra. We’re free now. We’ll kill ‘em. We’ll do it for the geraniums.”


	50. Log 50

DM  
Qildra flies to the towering doors ahead. She hisses and yanks her hand off the metal, shaking it out, “Those bastards put in cold iron doors! In our own house!”

Ruran  
“How do you feel about breaking a few windows?”

DM: @Ruran  
“I hope they cut their eyes on the glass,” Qildra punches through her own front window. The entire pane shattes and falls in a tinkling rain. She bows with a vicious grin, “Welcome to Thorn’s End.”

Medomai  
The point, ah, “Funny.”

Medomai wiggles his fingers, “Let’s get some life links on before we sally forth.”

There seems no point in casting protection from evil with them not here to fight to denizens of this slice of the Abyss but rather the elves and drow who’ve set up shop here--with their luck, all of Wintercourt’s morally gray.

Levi  
“Wow, thanks. I can’t say I’ve ever been vitally linked to anyone before. How does this work?”

Medomai: @Levi  
Medomai blinks. No one’s ever actually asked about it before or with more inconvenient timing. He pats the incubus’ shoulder last, setting up the healing connection, “You do realize that by destroying your window, loudly, we’ve alerted the entire manor to our presence, right?”

Levi: @Medomai  
“Oh, whoops. That might’ve been a miscalculation.”

Al  
Al laughs, “Let ‘em come.”

He casts his own spells--badger’s ferocity, bull’s strength, and clay skin--buffing and protecting.

Khein  
“I can make us all invisible,” says Khein, placing her palms together for a different cast. She casts see invisibility on herself and takes Levi’s hand in a shake to cast greater heroism on them, “For vengeance.”

Levi: @Khein  
“Oh my lords, that’s so sweet of you.”

DM  
“I’ll say,” says Qildra. “Can I get one of those?”

The flurry of hailing arrows through the empty window, however, quickly snatches her full attention. She dives to the side of the window drawing her rapier and the claws of her free hand.

Kwava’s skin hardens like bark. He presses himself flat to the locked doors and draws his own bow.

You all manage to get out of the way of the piercing flurry except for Ruran, who takes several points above the knee. The flurry subsides just long enough to allow some bold soul to leap through the hole.

Khein  
Khein lets out her electric wail and flies through the hole. Both hands grip the hilt of her falchion. She drives her crackling sword through the first Wintercourt agent she sees.

DM: @Khein  
Khein cuts the poor bastard down where they stand, leaving twelve more mithral-helmed warriors in the manor’s huge, airy great hall.

Medomai  
“I’m just going to stay on the safe side of the hole and keep watch on your vitals.”

DM  
Khein might agree with that after half the contingent fire at her and the other half fire through the hole. Then again, their collective aim is so fucked that only a single arrow pierces through her mithral shirt.

Ruran  
When the barrage dies down, Ruran pops their poppet up over the windowsill, “Die.”

DM: @Ruran  
Another agent bites the dust, their corpse burning up in ethereal gray flame.

Levi  
Levi flaps his wings and flies through the hole. He zooms down on the next agents up and swings his scythe.

DM: @Levi  
Levi cuts through two necks, popping off heads like a gods-damned angel of death.

Al  
Al follows Levi through on Khein’s electric, raging flight. He whirls right into the next group of agents, sickles out.

DM  
The sickle maelstrom takes another two down in a spiral of blood.

Kwava follows with a flurry of his own. He pins his targeted agent to the graffitied wall.

Khein  
Khein flies up just to come down all the harder on the next agent.

DM: @Khein  
That falchion’s lethal alright. Khein drives it right down the agent’s centerline.

Medomai  
“How’s it going?”

DM  
A simple glance through the empty window reveals only four agents remaining of the twelve and their now-defunct captain. They exchange their bows for rapiers and strike back with the desperation of a cornered traitor.

They only manage to cut into Khein and Al, melee unfortunately not being their forte.

Ruran  
“It looks like you’ve all got this. I’m gonna save my spell slots, if that’s alright,” says Ruran, taking up by Qildra working the rear guard.

Levi  
“None taken,” answers Levi, too preoccupied with these next two swings to catch all of that.

DM: @Levi  
The preoccupation is well worth it if the two dead agents are any count.

Al  
Al’s too deep in the blood rage to speak. If he could, however, he’d be saying, “Nice. Lemme get these last two.”

Which is where he’s aiming his sickles.

DM  
Al hits like a freight train. There’s nothing left of the last two agents apart from a fleshy wet stain on the charred carpet.

Qildra flies through the window as the sounds of combat abruptly fall silent. She neither sheathes her rapier nor lower her claw, “This is retaking is taking too fucking long. Time to divide and conquer.”

Khein  
For reasons that she doesn’t entirely understand, Khein doesn’t like the idea of splitting up. As she has had no prior experience in doing so, however, she lets the feeling slide on by like water off oil.

Medomai  
“That always ends well.”

Ruran  
“I think Qildra’s right. This manor’s huge and it’s only going to get harder to retake the longer it takes. I’ll go with her.”

DM: @Ruran  
“I’ll go with you.”

Levi  
“If Qildra’s leading one party, I guess I should be leading the other.”

Al  
Al raises an eyebrow. Levi appears to have several fundamental misunderstandings going on up there. They do, however, seem an eager, genuine force, which Al can appreciate from a demon, “Very well. I’ll handle the frontlining in Qildra’s party.”

Khein  
That’s four on Qildra’s team, “Levi, I’m with you.”

Medomai  
“I suppose that puts me on the incubus-tiefling team.”  
Ruran  
“That’s set then. Medomai, Khein, Levi, please take care. Qildra, I guess you can lead the way.”

Levi  
“Will do, thanks! Khein, Medomai, follow me to the dismemberments!” Levi flaps his wings, holding his staff casually out in front of him.

Al  
Al shakes his head, grinning wryly. He jogs after Qildra, falling in step with her flapping pace.

\--/--

DM  
As Qildra guides you down the halls, more guards come running and flying. Those that she doesn’t cut down with rapier and claw, Al and Kwava dispatch with sickle and arrow as easily as paring down minions.

You finally arrive at what must have been a bedroom. It’s now decorated like a hunting lodge, with Material Plane animal skins in place of tapestries, rustic wooden furniture, and a pile of luxuriant furs in place of the bed. On the southwestern wall is a pair of crossed, cold iron short spears. An armor rack and its accompanying weapon rack stand empty, while a warm brazier and general cleanliness mark this room as being in use, though you don’t see anyone.

Kwava’s ears twitch, however. He glances under the shortspears and in front of a stretched zebra skin. He raises two fingers under his sternum for a subtle, “at least two”.

Ruran  
“Stand behind me,” whispers Ruran.

Al  
Al falls back to a single step behind Ruran.

DM  
Qildra falls back to Kwava’s side, who’s already beside Ruran.

Ruran  
Ruran opens their mouth at the cold iron short spears. A cone of spectral screams like a screeching megaphone of agonized ghosts bursts from their tongue.

DM: @Ruran  
There’s a sympathetic scream from under the shortspears. A short spear and a bastard sword clatter to the floor. The invisible, shrieking agent runs screaming toward the door. As they pass, they afford Al, Qildra, and Kwava opportunity attacks.

Al: @DM  
Al swings his sickles for all he’s worth.

DM: @Al  
Al’s sickles rip two fonts of arcing red seemingly from mid-air. The agent continues to scream, though in a much weaker warble.

Kwava’s arrows sail uninterrupted through the air. Qildra’s rapier, however, stakes something straight down the middle. A drow gurgling blood appears on the blade, pierced through the heart.

“THIS is for turning my BEDROOM into a PIGSTY,” Qildra’s claw thunks into the drow’s skull. She rips the head off the agent.

“Malindil!” an agent screams from before the zebra skin.

“Oh good, there’s someone here to pay for my GERANIUMS.”

Ruran  
Ruran screams their ghostly shrieks back at the zebra skin.

DM

 

The secret agent elf doesn’t scream back. A heavy wooden staff whacks Ruran in the chest. The elven agent appears, swinging around to pummel them again in the gut.

“Found you, geranium killer,” Qildra whales on the elf with piercing rapier and gouging claw.

Kwava follows with a barrage of pinpoint missiles. Only three hit, but they sink deep into agent’s flesh.

Al  
“Pick on someone your own speed,” growls Al, heating into his bloody rage. He swings his sickles into a shifted grip and sweeps down on the agent.

DM: @Al  
The agent flies apart at the seams under Al’s steely whirlwind. Their limbs and parts splat heavily to the skin-carpeted floor.

Al: @DM  
Al breathes out from his rage and staggers back from the mess. In the grip of fatigue, his feet trip out from under him. He flumps onto the fur skins pretending to be a bed.

“Hey,” he pants, “weren’t we supposed to keep someone alive for questioning?”

Ruran  
“I’m a necromancer,” Ruran winces through the pain. “I speak for the dead. Er, I speak to them.”

Al  
“That’s a nifty skill. And good, the revenge is back on,” Al gives Qildra a thumb’s up. “Kill away.”

DM  
Qildra grins, wide and coldly, “Oh, I shall.”

 

She licks the cooling blood off her claws.

\--/--

DM  
You follow Levi to a bedroom, presumably their own. It’s been recently painted over with a black-and-yellow motif. Paintings of wasps have been hung off every flat, vertical surface with care. Wasp statuettes deck the desks and shelves. Someone has even DIY-carved/defaced the chair backs and headboards with wasps.

Levi  
“What the fuck…?” Had some kind of wasp fetishist moved into their bedroom? Because this is just fucked up. There is way too much wasp-motif here to be sound or sanitary.

Medomai  
“No, yeah, it’s stinging my eyes.”

Khein  
“Not as bad as my ears after that pun.”

DM: @Khein  
Unlike the others, Khein’s see invisibility spell allows her to see the drow cleric standing on top of the desk with a monster flail in hand.

Khein: @DM  
Khein avoids looking directly at the drow. Instead, she shifts her grip on her falchion from two hands to one. She strolls around the wasp room, stroking a finger up the length of her blade.

As she passes the desk, Khein flicks her finger off the tip in the drow’s direction, “Twinkle, twinkle, buzzy bitch.”

She casts glitterdust at the cleric.

DM: @Khein  
A cloud of golden dust poofs out from Khein’s fingertip, covering an entire ten-foot-radius spread. Not only does the glowing dust limn the wasp-loving cleric, but it also blinds the hissing drow.

Medomai  
“You know what?” says Medomai, loading his crossbow. “That was so useful, I’m not even mad about your inability to appreciate proper puntification.”

Mostly. He fires two bolts at the cleric.

DM: @Medomai  
Perhaps Medomai’s madder than he thinks, seeing as both bolts fire wide into the stripes of the wall.

Levi  
“Khein, I’m gonna have to pay you back, because this is the best homecoming gift I could ever have imagined,” Levi smiles, swinging their scythe.

DM: @Levi  
Levi scythes the living daylights out of the cleric. The drow falls to the floor in two pieces. The blood breaks up the waspish pattern of the new floor tile.

Khein  
“I’m holding you to that, incubus.”

Medomai  
Medomai looks up from the body and blood-strewn floor, “Oooh, shit. We weren’t supposed to leave an agent alive for questioning were we?”

He’d assumed Ruran’s team would handle that, that being Ruran’s team after all. It’s possible, however, that there’s was the only team to encounter some high-ranking Wintercourt agent.

Levi  
“Huhhh. Wait. I have an idea. Why don’t we ask the other team when we meet back up with them?”

Khein  
Khein bites both of her lips, nodding because she can’t trust herself to speak. It takes a few breaths, “But if we find someone else, Medomai, how about we be a bit quicker with that breath of life?”

Medomai  
“Right. Sorry, yeah, I suppose that was my bad.”

Levi  
“No, no, it was mine--got a bit too excited there when old Waspy lit up like a wickerman.”

Khein  
Khein gives an amused snort, “Alright. If we’re done here, let’s get back out there and hedge our bets.”


	51. Log 51

DM  
Levi leads Medomai and Khein to a pair of double doors that open with a grainy screak. The walls of the archive within bear dozens of shelves, each heavy with stacks of scrolls, books, and even stone tablets. Lower freestanding bookcases sit on the floor throughout the room, and at the room’s center is a single huge desk, its surface heaped with what appear to be astrological charts, ancient books, and several stone tablets bearing eerie-looking glyphs. 

In the corner stands a familiar, highly polished iron statue resembling a 13-foot-tall elf. Metal whispers over metal as its head turns to regard the lot of you. It steps off its pedestal in a series of much louder clanks.

In the other corner, Khein spots an invisible, slightly stooped elf. His slender, sallow fingers flick in the patterns of spellcasting.

Medomai  
Shit. Where’s that glorious fool Al when you needed him? 

Not here, obviously. Medomai’s hand wraps around his crystal wand. He levitates up under the archive’s ceiling.

Levi  
“Attacking furniture? In my home?!”

Guess it’s more likely than Levi thinks. They shake their horn head and readjust the grip on their scythe. Levi flies at the iron elf in full, homeowner’s fury.

DM  
Levi’s massive, furious homeowner’s chop nearly severs the iron elf completely down the middle. Looks like it hasn’t prepared at all for the blows of a weapon made from the same adamantine as its hull.

Meanwhile, the invisible elf wizard flies up from the floor himself.

Khein  
Levi is clearly capable of handling the furniture in their own home. 

Khein lets out her electric wail. She flies up at the invisible elf and swings her crackling falchion.

DM  
Well, fuck. Despite everyone’s earlier talk of trying not to kill the next Wintercourt agent they encounter, that’s exactly what happens here. The wizard’s invisibility breaks as the electric-fried pieces of his body smack to the floor in a rain of unrecognizable meat.

The iron elf opens its mouth with a metal shriek. Green, poisonous gas blasts out at Levi.

Which would do something horrible if the incubus weren’t fucking immune to poison, gods damn it. But, it also swings its massive, adamantine fists. Both land a solid, organ-pulverizing hit on the demon.

Medomai  
“Ouch,” Medomai flinches in sympathy. Otherwise, he does nothing from his safety under the ceiling. “Hang in there, friend. I’ll heal you up once we’re out of combat.”

Levi  
“Got it,” Levi winces. Then accepts Khein’s electric rage. He flies once more at the impertinent furniture.

DM: @Levi  
Levi’s scythe cleaves the iron golem in twain. The two lopsided pieces crash to the floor, shattering the tile underfoot. The archive falls back into studious silence.

Khein  
Khein frowns at the pieces of elf as her electric rage fizzles out, “Medomai, you couldn’t do anything about this could you?”

Medomai  
“Fuck! That’s right, I completely forgot we’re supposed to be interrogating these guys,” Medomai flies down from the ceiling to a spot of floor unsullied by the butcher’s cuts. “I’m afraid this poor sod has just missed the revivable window.”

Levi  
Levi lowers and flips their scythe, resting their pointy chin on the butt of its handle, “Well, I guess that’ll teach ‘em not to install deadly pieces next time.”

Khein  
Khein looks aghast from Levi to Medomai. What the actual fuck. She shakes her head, “Whatever. Maybe the others had more luck.”

DM  
Speak of the demon, Qildra bursts through the doors, rapier at the ready. She lowers it at the sorry sight of you three. Al, Kwava, and Ruran follow in after her, Kwava carrying the body of a recently and violently deceased drow.

“I see you were about as successful as we were in keeping these mortals alive,” says Qildra. Her eyes zero in on Levi’s pummeled body. “Are you alright?”

Levi: @DM  
“Oh, yeah. Medomai’s got it covered, right buddy?”

Medomai  
“Yes, sure, of course,” Medomai hops to it with the healing wand action, charging Levi back up to full bars.

Ruran  
“Kwava, maybe you could set the body at the table,” they point at a chair with arms.

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava obliges, propping the body in the chair with the help of a looted belt to keep it upright.

Ruran: @DM  
“Thanks. Now, the deal with talking to the undead is, we’re only gonna get maybe three answers before we end up exhausting the body’s spirit.”

Khein  
“Where and/or how do we get to the Land of Black Blood definitely has to be one of those questions.”

Levi  
“That’s a good one. Or two.”

Al  
“Maybe ask if this is all of Wintercourt left here just so we don’t get surprise-attacked in our sleep.”

Medomai  
“It’s possible we will anyway if we’ve tripped some kind of invisible ward being here,” there’d been ample time since they got here for any of these spellcasting Wintercourt agents to send a distress message. “How about asking if we should expect a retaliatory attack.”

Ruran  
“So we’ve got ‘how do we get to the Land of Black Blood?’, ‘will Wintercourt send someone here to investigate or something?’, and how about ‘when does Allevrah plan to activate the Earthfall glyphs?’”

Khein  
“Sounds good to me.”

Levi  
“Me too.”

Al  
“Go for it, Ruran.”

Medomai  
Medomai gives the necromancer an encouraging nod and smile.

Ruran  
Ruran pulls the poppet from their pocket. They point its desiccated head at the body staining the chair. Its leathery skin warms in their hand.

DM: @Ruran  
The corpse’s jaw drops loose with a skin-prickling gasp.

Ruran: @DM  
“Hi, I’m Ruran,” they say in Necril, the tongue of the dead. “I just wanna go ahead and say thanks for your time. I’ve got some questions for you. First up, how do we get to the Land of Black Blood?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Use the elf gate,” it rasps without moving its mouth or any other muscle in its body, “the one we’ve installed in the basement.”

Qildra, who also speaks Necril thanks to her constant tongues effect, shares a glance with Levi.

Levi: @DM  
“An elf gate? In our house?!”

DM: @Levi  
“I mean I suppose it makes sense.”

Ruran: @DM  
More likely than they think. Ruran clears their throat, “Second question, should we expect Wintercourt to send some kind of team here to investigate our break-in?”

DM: @Ruran  
“It’s OUR house for the lords sakes,” mutters Qildra.

“They have already been requested. Allevrah should have dispatched them, unless all of Wintercourt is otherwise occupied.”

Levi: @DM  
“It said we’re getting company.”

Ruran: @DM  
That bit about all the shadow government being occupied at the moment didn’t sound good. Ruran asks the last question, fearing they already know the answer, “When does Allevrah plan to activate the Earthfall glyphs?”

DM: @Ruran  
“Tonight, at the stroke of midnight.”

With that, the poppet cools in Ruran’s hand. The agent’s spirit has been fully expended.

“Well, good luck with that,” says Qildra. “I’m going to stay here in case that strike team ever makes it through.”

Levi: @DM  
Levi may not be the brightest incubus in the Abyss, but they recognize that this Earthfall business is objectively bad, or at least inconvenient, for everyone.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you find them.”

Khein  
“What did they say?”

Ruran: @Khein  
Ruran lets out a weak, shaky cackle, “Midnight.”

It’s the only word they can squeak out, but it’s enough to send their mind reeling all over again.

Levi  
“So there’s no time to wait.”

Al  
Well, fuck. At least they’ve got a way into the Land of Black Blood, but now they’ve got to deal with both Allevrah and her Earthfall glyphs--immediately, “We’re gonna have to split up, aren’t we?”

Medomai  
“So it seems. Same teams?”

Ruran  
“That works for me.”

Medomai: @Ruran  
“I have dispelling magic, so our group should go after the glyphs.”

Khein  
“Unless there’s anything else to decide, we should get going.”

Levi  
Levi looks from one new friend and ally against the end of the world to the other.

Al  
“Let’s go.”

DM  
You follow Levi to the basement. Just as the dead agent indicated, there shimmers the familiar sight of an activated elf gate. The keystone must be in the room because you can see through the portal like a window into the Darklands.

To one side rise a swath of vertical drops coated in the slime and muck of the great cavern. What seems to be black blood oozes raw and thick from a number of fissures among the cliffs.

A glyph is carved along the sheer cliff wall, a thousand feet above the ground below. Lightning blasts from its jagged curves like a strobe light in the darkness.

To the other side, a thirty-foot-wide bridge of stone rises over a large lake of glossy black water that fills a crater-shaped valley. Stone pilings carved with images of snakes support the bridge all the way to a shining black road.

Medomai  
This is it. At the very least, Allevrah had made it suspiciously easy to find that first gods-damned glyph.

Ruran  
“Good luck, everyone,” Ruran squeezes Kwava’s hand.

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava squeezes back, “Let’s do this.”

Khein  
Khein nods at the others. She takes her falchion in hand and strides through the portal toward the first of the glyphs.

Levi  
Levi flies after Khein, pulling their scythe from their back.

Al  
Here goes nothing. Which is closer to the truth than Al can admit to himself. He unsheathes both sickles and walks grim-faced through the portal toward the bridge of stone snakes.


	52. Log 52

DM  
A sixty-foot bolt of lightning angrily cracks from the glyph-carved face of the cliff. A palpable rage flows from the wounds cut into the oozing rock, as though the walls themselves are protesting the glyph’s presence.

Medomai  
Well, there it be. The fact that it’s visible from this distance could prove to their advantage. Medomai sees if he can study it from here where they’re safe from the reach of the shooting lightning.

DM: @Medomai  
Even from this distance, Medomai can tell that the glyph is nearly impossible to destroy by mundane means. It is, however, truly wrathful. As such, its actually vulnerable to both calming and spells of the emotion subschool.

Medomai: @DM  
“Oh my gods, we’ve got to hit it with anger management.”

Levi  
Levi looks down at their scythe, “I didn’t bring any of that.”

Medomai: @Levi  
“I mean, I think we just need to talk to it. Fly me over there and I can handle it.”

Khein  
It can’t be that simple. Khein looks for a trap, perhaps one only slightly less obvious than this ‘hidden’ glyph.

DM  
The trap, because of course there’s a trap, is comparatively more subtle. If the glyph should deactivate, it fires one last, dying shot of lightning off like a signal flare.

Khein: @DM  
“As soon as we deactivate it, all of Wintercourt will know and likely mobilize.”

Medomai  
“Of course,” there’s really no escaping that. The clarity is almost a courtesy. “Shall we get this show on the road, then?”

Levi  
“Sure thing,” Levi tucks their scythe away and sweeps Medomai up in their arms in the traditional princess carry.

They wait until after the next blast of lightning before flying Medomai down the side of the cliff.

DM  
As Medomai and Levi descend down the side of the cliff, three cone-shaped pinnacles of stone rise from the rock around the glyph. They extend nine feet in the horizontal from the cliff face. A huge eye opens in the conical stones’ centers, just above the opening of a razor-sharp, rock-toothed maw. Each maw spews a ring of long, lashing tentacles.

Levi  
“Oh, shit!” the incubus tosses Medomai from princess to potato sack over their shoulder and slings out their scythe. They bring the blade down on the nearest conehead.

DM: @Levi  
The adamantine blade shatters the first of the coneheads in a shower of rock and sticky, spittle tentacles.

Khein  
Fuck, this is only the first of the six glyphs and Khein’s already used her raging song today. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts down the side of the cliff, “Can you guys handle this?”

DM  
As though in answer, the sticky spittle tentacles of a surviving conehead stretch fifty feet up the cliff to Khein’s position. They lash and grab at the tiefling. 

Two seize around her arms. Two seize her legs. Where they touch and coil, they sap the strength from her limbs.

The other conehead shoots its tentacles at Levi and Medomai, three at each. 

All three latch onto Medomai’s flailing legs. Only two seize onto either of Levi’s arms. The tentacles drink the strength straight from their skin.

Medomai  
Gotta go fast. Medomai does his best to ignored the pins and needles spreading up his legs and turns to address the glyph as though it were any friendly conversant, “Hello there, friend. I know you’re hurting. We’re here to help you.”

Oh, that was bad.

DM: @Medomai  
Yeah, no, the glyph of fury only furiously shoots a bolt of lightning from its face with a deafening crack. The bolt strikes Levi square in the chest.

Levi  
“Oof,” Levi grunts. But, they take the bolt like a champ and scythe at the conehead draining them.

DM: @Levi  
A couple points of strength damage clearly isn’t enough to impair Levi’s raw destructive capacity. Their scythe scythes right through the stone. The spittle tentacles dissolve from around Levi and Medomai. Hunks of conehead fall away into the endless abyss below.

Khein  
“Gah!” Khein slashes at the tentacles around her legs before they pull her off the fucking cliff and one around her arm if she can manage it.

DM  
Khein’s falchion slices through three of the tentacles. The fourth continues to sap the strength from her arm. It does indeed try to pull her off the cliff, but she digs her heels into the dirt.

Medomai  
Time to try again, “Sorry about that, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we both take a moment to just breath? I know you’re in a lot of pain right now. But please, if you just listen to me, we’ll get through this together.”

DM: @Medomai  
The glyph of fury sees right through Medomai’s cookie-cutter spiel and launches another lightning bolt from its oozing face. This one really burns through the incubus.

Levi  
“Think I’m gonna need some healing, too,” Levi shouts over the ringing in their pointed ears.

They slice away at the final conehead.

DM: @Levi  
Adhered to the rock as it is, the conehead can’t escape the slashing death of Levi’s scythe. The final tentacle dissolves from around Khein’s arm as the conehead crumbles into the abyss.

Khein  
“Fuck me. Medomai, please tell me you can restore strength.”

Medomai  
“Yes, gods damn it--I am, in fact, an actual fucking healer!”

Medomai takes a breather of his own before trying to talk down the glyph again, “Sorry you had to hear that. All this is getting to me, too. How about you and I walk away from all this together? Metaphorically. What do you say?”

DM  
Somehow, un-fucking-believably, those are the diplomatic words that get through to the glyph. Words without voice ring through Medomai’s mind: “Bask in secrets once concealed, unleashed magics now revealed. Raging fury, boiling wrath—no calm ere the aftermath.”

The crackling lightning rips off the face of the glyph and fires into the sky, a signal beacon to Allevrah and all of Wintercourt. In its wake, the ooze of the rock seeps into the hollows of the glyph, swallowing it completely.

The first glyph has been deactivated. The pulse in Medomai’s mind pulls his sense of direction across the cliff’s bleak plateau toward the second.

Levi  
Levi flies Medomai back up to Khein at the top of the cliff. The twice-struck wound on their chest smokes.

Khein  
Khein winces at the sight of it.

Medomai  
“Good news. I know where the next glyph is. Better news, I’m healing all of us.”

Levi  
“Woot woot!”

Khein  
Khein can’t help grinning at the demon’s unbridled expressions, “Get on it, then.”

Medomai  
“Hold...still.”

\--/--

DM  
Though literally and figuratively overshadowed by the ominous grandeur of the snake-pillar supported bridge, Ruran, Al, and Kwava can’t fail to notice the squat stone building as they approach the bridge.

The structure seems to have been magically raised up from the surrounding stone. The top of the building is open, a twenty-foot-wide bay lined with perches for enormous, person-sized bats. A single doorway faces east and a pathway leads up into the interior of the stalagmite forest that surrounds the land and island beyond.

The bunker apparent bursts into a flurry of activity. Elves, drow, and driders in the mithral armor of Wintercourt swarm from the doors. 

Ruran  
Hides behind a stalagmite at the first sign of activity, waving the others over. It occurs to them that none of the three have any reliable access to healing. On the other hand, everyone here is drow, passably drow, and elven.

Al  
Al hunkers down beside Ruran, his back to the massive stalagmite. He keeps an eye out for any passing patrols on foot or bat-wing above.

DM  
Kwava ducks down with the two of you. Both a patrol on foot and a bat-wing patrol leave from the bunker below. They appear to be heading in the direction of the elf gate.

Ruran  
“I have an idea. The air patrol is gonna get to the elf gate first. How about we ambush the foot patrol and take their armor.”

Al  
And sneak across the bridge in disguise, “I like it. But they’re gonna know we’re not a real patrol. We don’t have the numbers.”

Ruran  
“Actually...we could.”

Al  
Ah, right, necromancer, “Well, I don’t have a problem with necromancy.”

Al looks pointedly at Kwava.

DM  
Kwava lets out a deep but still stealthy sigh, “Desperate times.”

Ruran  
“Thank you, thank you,” Ruran reaches out to their boyfriend but draws back before touching him.

This could be a dealbreaker. Honestly, they couldn’t blame him, but there really isn’t any other choice unless they want to rely on everyone’s combined, abysmal charisma.

Al  
Al looks back toward the patrols, staying out of this one. Besides, Kwava had already agreed to conditionally permitting necromancy, so that’s all that really matters.

DM  
Kwava catches Ruran’s fingers in his, “Don’t thank me. Yeah, we’re all going to Hells for this, if we won’t damned to the Abyss here, but this is the end of the world. I’m honored to be facing it with you.”

Ruran  
Ruran blinks back their tears. There’d be time for crying if they survived this. They settle for a watery smile instead.

Al  
Al’s feeling a little sniffly himself. Meda, wherever you are, I’m rooting for you, babe.

\--/--

DM  
Following the impulse that the glyph left in Medomai’s mind, the dhampir leads the glyph team across the bleak, black plateau. In the distance rise crystal archways set in a rough circle. Several of the crystals have fall, but those that stand rise in graceful arcs to thirty feet. Under the largest of the crystal arches, a purple glow dimly illuminates the ring of crystals and reflects off their countless surrounding facets.

Levi  
“There she glows!”

Khein  
“Please don’t ever say that again,” says Khein, looking for traps as they approach.

Medomai  
Medomai has to side with Khein on this one.

DM  
Levi and Khein notice an unusual rippling in the air amid the crystal arches, almost as if a thin layer of water were superimposed vertically between them.

Levi  
Levi flaps up short into a hover, “That’s weird. It looks almost like a...trap.”

Khein  
No shit, Demonlock. Khein points out the effect to Medomai, “What do you make of this?”

Medomai  
Oof, Medomai’s not making anything out of it with that luck. He sighs deeply and expends a precious spell slot to cast true seeing.

DM  
And now Medomai’s making out everything, including the manifold, sickly eyes peering out of the rips in the fabric between dimensions for threats, prey, or both. He can even perceive the faintest shadow of the gargantuan aberration on the other side of the thin spot in the veil between worlds that falls over the entire crystal ring of weakening.

Medomai: @DM  
Uhhh, fuck that, “Follow me to the edge of the ring, but don’t go in until I say so.”

Levi  
Levi follows, shifting their grip on their scythe. Something about this place is getting under their skin and the incubus doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

Khein  
“Medomai?” damn, there’s a slight tremor in Khein’s voice. 

All this nervous energy is contagious. She flexes her sweating fingers on the hilt of her falchion.

Medomai  
“Now,” Medomai clears his throat, “someone needs to act as bait.”

Levi  
Levi raises their hand, “I’ll do it.”

Anything is better than standing around letting their nerves eat a hole in their gut.

Khein  
“Be careful, Demonlock.”

Levi: @Khein  
“What?”

Medomai  
“Go! Now!” says Medomai, his precious, high-level cast threatening to fly from his tongue and sweating fingers.

Levi  
Levi flies past the crystal arches into the ring.

DM  
The watery shimmer ripples. Six twenty-foot tentacles wide as tree-trunks burst from the rifts in space. Levi dodges one, two--then their luck runs out.

Four massive tentacles whip across their body and bury the incubus in their crushing coils. They yank Levi toward the shimmering rift as they squeeze the life out them.

Medomai: @DM  
“Not today, aberration! You’re banish-ed!”

Medomai claps his hands together.

DM: @Medomai  
A tidal wave of raw, abjuring power roars out from Medomai’s clap in a crystal-ringing pulse. The black earth and crystal arches shake with the screams that pierce the veil. The shadow of the gargantuan aberration dances in fury as its tentacles are blasted back to whatever Abyssal hole it reached through.

The pulverized but still-clinging-to-life incubus is free.

Medomai: @DM  
“No time to heal--get to the glyph!” Now, now, now, now, now!

DM  
There’s apparently no time for Medomai to notice how soothing the purple light is that dances within the cracks of the glyph etched into the central crystal arch. Levi and Khein, however, feel a wash of warmth and healing.

Wait, no, it’s no just a feeling. Levi and Khein actually gain fast healing in the glyph’s presence.

Levi  
“Wow, that’s nice,” before they can stop themself, Levi lays a hand right on the glyph easing their nearly-pulverized body.

DM: @Levi  
At the touch, knowledge flows in through Levi’s palm. The only way to deactivate the glyph (without wearing down the timer on that banishment and the apocalypse with a futile barrage of violence) is to heal this Glyph of Renewal.

Levi: @DM  
“Sorry, Medomai. Looks like you’re gonna have to make time for healing.”

Medomai: @Levi  
Fuck, “Ok, well, from this point on, nobody had better die.”

Khein  
“We’ll try.”

Medomai  
“Thanks.”

Medomai waves Levi’s hand off and places his own hand on the glyph. Goodbye, breath of life. He mutters the magic words, “I hope you’re happy.”

DM  
As soon as the spell leaves his hand, the glyph’s purple life rushes in through Medomai’s palm, infusing his entire body. Words ring clarion through his mind: “And so spoke Abraxas: give unto me your faith, and I shall grant to you a cleansing unlike any you have witnessed or conceived.”

The light fades, drawn into a ribbon of energy that shoots straight up into the eternal darkness. In its wake, the surface of the crystal has returned to its smooth, mirror-like state.

Levi  
Levi looks up after the purple signal beam, “Yep. Here we are.”

Khein  
“Not for long--Medomai, you know where to go?”

Medomai  
“Yeah, come on,” before the banishment wears out.

DM  
The three of you make it whole and hale out from the crystal plaza. On your trek across the bleak plateau, you reflect on your recent, harrowing but ultimately life-affirming experiences.


	53. Log 53

DM  
The twelve members of the bat-wing air patrol reach the airspace over the free-standing elf gate first. They circle and soar in a ring above, waiting for the foot and drider patrol, which gives Ruran, Al, and Kwava time to reach the edge of the stalagmite forest.

Ruran  
Ruran stops just behind the outermost row of stalagmites. They wait, watching for a chance to strike.

Al  
Al lets Ruran take the lead here. If all else fails, they can raise a magickal ruckus out here and attract a new patrol to investigate. Hopefully.

DM  
The patrol splits in two. Half the fliers, six agents and their mounts, circle off in the direction that your very own glyph team took. Half the driders and foot patrol separate as well. Six of each following the break-off bats and six remaining on course for the elf gate.

Those who walk off vanish into the opposite border of the stalagmite forest.

Ruran  
No, yeah, they’re definitely going after Medomai, Khein, and Levi. There’s nothing they can do to stop them now. The other team is too close to the portal.

Ruran nods at Al and Kwava over their shoulder. They can at least stop this group from going back to take out Qildra.

Al  
Al smiles viciously. It’s ambush time. He runs out from the stalagmites, sickles drawn, and roars into a rage. He falls on the nearest couple of driders.

Ruran  
Ruran flies up over the towering tops of the stalagmites. They point their poppet at the air patrol above, Wintercourt agents and massive bats alike, “Wilt for me.”

DM  
At Ruran’s spell, all the moisture evaporates off the bat and agent bodies. They scream as their flesh withers and cracks, crumbling away to dust. The air patrol is no more.

On the earth below, Al’s maelstrom of steel scythes through the necks of two driders.

Kwava follows up the attack from the foot of the stalagmites. He fires four arrows into a drider, taking the spidery beast down.

The remaining driders are incensed to say the least. Two blast web at Ruran and Kwava. Which flies past Ruran and simply slides off Kwava’s armor. 

The third whacks at Al with a heavy mace while the mandibles at their waist attempt to snap shut around him. Teeth and measly mace are no match for Al’s mithral armor.

The six foot soldiers raise their crossbows, two at each of you. Their bolts glisten with poison.

Unfortunately, their aim fucking sucks and nobody takes a lick of poison never mind damage.

Al  
Al presses the attack on the drider cluster.

DM: @Al  
Al critically shears through two of their large bodies. The pieces smack wet against the dark stone floor of the cavern.

Ruran  
Ruran points their poppet down at the archers below, “Pain on all your houses.”

DM  
A contagion of open sores explodes across the skin of one archer after the other. While none die, all six are moderately wounded.

Kwava, turning his bow from the last drider, splits four arrows between two of the wounded agents. They join the dust and drider steaks on the cavern floor.

The last drider, panic on their elven face, vanishes from sight.

The four remaining archers fire two arrows at Al and two at Ruran. All of which succumb to the shaking of the archers’ hands and fly awry.

Al  
“Where are you?!” Al roars at the vanished drider even as he lays into the agents with his hungry sickles.

DM: @Al  
Al just takes out the entire fucking swath of the wounded archers.

Ruran  
Ruran lays a finger over their poppet’s head, “See the true for me.”

They remove their finger. An orb-less, all-seeing eye hole opens in the poppet’s leather flesh.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran spots the drider galloping back toward the bunker.

Ruran: @DM  
“Kwava, it’s going to be there!” they point at its location in the near, galloping future on its current trajectory.

DM  
“Got it,” Kwava knocks four arrows into his bow. “Tell me when.”

In the span of a breath, the drider reaches the critical gallop zone.

Ruran: @DM  
“Now!”

DM: @Ruran  
Kwava fires at Ruran’s direction. Arrows sail across the cavern in the gap between the stalagmites. They shunk one after the other into the drider’s back.

The invisibility spell vanishes. The drider falls, seen, back to the cavern floor.

Al  
Al comes down from his rage, swaying on his feet. He takes a minute to breath before giving Ruran and Kwava a sweaty grin, “So, we gathering up the bodies for you, then?”

Ruran  
“If you wouldn’t mind, yeah.”

DM  
“What about all these guys you withered into dust?”

Ruran: @DM  
“No worries, I’ve restored corpses in worse condition at the morgue.”

\--/--

DM  
Rising out on the distant horizon is the domed cap of what appears to be a gargantuan mushroom. Its gradually sloping stalk reaches hundreds of feet into the cavern air—-so far that the artificial light at emanating from its base does not reach its rounded tip.

Smaller fungi grow off the great shroom’s stalk like parasites on the flank of a massive beast. A platform of fungal matter forms a landing out of the swamp-like terrain at the mushroom’s foot. The mycelium bridge stretches into a wide, tall gap in the side of the mushroom’s stalk. Blue-white light glows from the hole.

Medomai  
What horrors must await in the bunghole of the great mushroom. Medomai shudders in Levi’s arms.

Levi  
Levi shifts Medomai into one arm, holding the dhampir above their hip like a lapdog in travel, and readies their scythe in the other. They fly through the shroom hole as stealthily as possible.

DM: @Levi  
The fibrous hole stretches open to a roughly cylindrical cavern filling the interior of the shroom’s stalk. The floor is slick with mold and drops away into a nearly gelatinous pool of foul water.

Thick, fibrous ribs run up along the walls supporting what looms above--including a softly glowing sigil. A blue-white light tracing the lines of the glyph like the skittish flickers of fireflies. Numerous species of parasitic fungus coat the walls, and the air is thick with a haze of spores.

The incubus is immune to the befouled air of spores, but Medomai’s nose and throat are instantly coated and parched of their fluids. Thanks to the Glyph of Wrath, however, he’s also immune to their more insidious effects on his mind.

Medomai: @Levi  
Medomai tugs on Levi’s armor to signal a quick retreat. The two of them may be immune to this spore cloud, but Khein may not be. They can’t let her enter the shroom.

Levi: @Medomai  
Levi heeds Medomai’s tug and flies back out, “Hey, Khein, you’re gonna not wanna go in there.”

Khein  
Khein shrugs, “Works for me. Shout if you need me.”

Medomai  
“Will do. Right, let’s go touch that glyph.”

Levi  
“And not drink the water.”

Levi flies back into the bunghole and up the fibrous wall. They stow their scythe to use both hands to hold Medomai out toward the glyph.

Khein  
Khein waits for them back at the dry edge of the cavern swampgrounds on the other side of the bridge.

DM  
Khein notices a rippling across the entire surface of the swamp. Something is rising. Something...gargantuan.

As soon as Medomai touches the glyph, every nerve in his body jumps on edge. Every second of contact sends waves of alarm from the glyph of vigilance wracking through him.

There’s only one way to deactivate it, convince the hypervigilant glyph that there’s no danger.

Medomai  
Medomai swallows down his own, sweaty panic and turns his best perpetual smile on the flighty glyph, “Hey, hey there, buddy. You’re okay. No one’s gonna hurt you any more. Me and my friends will make sure of that. We’re your friends now, and friends protect friends.”

DM: @Medomai  
OH, so close.

Levi  
Levi throws their smile into the ring to assist Medomai’s bluff, “That’s right lil’ glyph. See this scythe? Anybody even looks at you funny and I’m ripping the guts right out their bowels!”

DM: @Levi  
Ok, fine, sure, whatever. You lucky fucks pull off the greatest con in history and calm the glyph with your otherwise transparently stupid-ass lies.

The fog of fear and panic lifts from both Medomai and the glyph. A disembodied voice rings through Medomai’s mind: “Blessed are they who alert their master to wrongdoing, that punishment may be swift and severe.”

The glyph’s light flies from the sigil in the form of a blue-white swarm of bat-shaped bursts of energy. The energy swarms whirls out from the shroom hole and up the massive stalk.

Khein  
Khein casts invisibility sphere on herself at the omnious rippling and races across the bridge as fast as she can, stopping just outside the doorhole.

DM  
The surface of the entire swamp shudders. A writhing mass of tendrils and vestigial appendages breaks the surface, splattering viscous waves of black ooze and water. The worm with its tentacled maw rises over fifty feet into the air, more coils churning the polluted swamp waters below.

But, the gargantuan aberration doesn’t appear to notice the diminutive Khein.

Khein: @DM  
Medomai and Levi couldn’t have failed to notice the shaking of the entire gods-damned swamp and its shroom. As soon as they fly near the hole, Khein grabs onto Levi’s leg and yanks the two into her invisibility sphere.

Medomai  
Medomai lets out a stilted and perhaps premature sigh of relief at the appearance of Khein.

Levi  
Levi turns the swing of their scythe to return the blade to their back instead of slicing down their ally. Who’s apparently saved them from a horrific death by swamp worm abomination.

The incubus hefts Khein up under their other arm. They fly off from the bridge and shroom swamp with Medomai and Khein in tow.

Khein  
As undignified as the double lapdog carry is, it’s better than turning into worm chum.

\--/--

DM  
Ruran’s morgue skills pay off in full with the restoration of the six driders, six dire bats, and nine of the Wintercourt agents. With Al, Ruran, and Kwava in Wintercourt mithral, things appear to be looking up.

Until you inevitably pass by the bunker on your way to the bridge. Because of course the near-immediate return of a patrol would draw attention. You happen to draw the attention of another, entire patrol.

Its driders form a semi-circle around you as the dire bats descend down into the other half of the circle. The leader apparent dismounts from a bat, their elven eyes narrowed at you and the undead masquerading as the living beneath their mithral helms.

“Explain yourselves, agents. Were you not just sent to inspect the disturbance at Thorn’s End?”

Ruran  
Ruran stifles a nervous cackle, glancing at Al. If a fight breaks out here, it’s absolutely drawing the attention of the bunker’s entire battalion.

Al  
Al, a drow noble, rankles at the sharp address but quickly reigns it in with his best, most militaristic impression of ol’ Paingiver Drovanis, “Sir! Something’s blocking us from entering the portal, sir. Seems the portal may be malfunction, sir. I suggest sending the magical engineers, sir.”

DM  
Kwava holds his breath at the lie. Which does not appear to be taking very well from the leader’s hardening face.

Ruran  
Ruran racks their brain for anything they know about elf gates and portals.

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran recalls from their numerous hours spent pouring over magical texts in the Vonnarc’s magic academy library that elf gates are particularly vulnerable to failure when subjected to magic that creates dimensional pockets on top of one or both of its teleporting ends.

Ruran: @DM  
“I don’t know much about portals, sir, but that demon on the other sides seems to be a powerful spellcaster. It looked like they warped the teleport-y bits by forcing the gate into a dimensional pocket. Sir.”

DM: @Ruran  
“Shit,” spits the leader. “You take your report directly over the bridge to Allevrah.”

“Better hope she doesn’t kill the messenger,” mutters another agent.

Al  
“Better us than you, sir,” says Al, barely resisting the curl of a smile.

\--/--

DM  
The guidance of the Glyph of Vigilance leads Medomai, Levi, and Khein to swampy caverns and a twisting, turning tunnel of mud. You hear the skitterings of claws but see no sign of enemies or guardians on your descent. The tunnel finally opens to a light from within a long, high-ceilinged natural chamber.

The floor is thick with clusters of skull-sized eggs nestled into the muck, but mud gives way to hard, slate-like stone. A large sigil is carved into the north wall in the shape of an unblinking eye within a ring of runes. No matter where you shift to avoid its gaze, the etching is ever-watching.

Khein  
Whether the guardians are here or truly not, there’s no time to waste. Khein places her hand on the glyph as she’d seen Levi do.

DM: @Khein  
Khein feels an invasive presence as though an accusing guard had caught her shoulder. But knowledge flows through the phantom hand. The runes circling the eye must be reconfigured so that the eye shuts.

But before Khein can use said magical device, a rain of arrows shoot down from the high ceiling, breaking the stealth of half a dozen Wintercourt agents on dire bat back.

The arrows bounce off everyone’s armor, but no matter. Six heavy maces whack through the air, two at each of them. Khein takes a nasty blow to the back of her head. There appear the attackers, six driders surrounding you.

They’re backed up by a second volley of precision-aimed arrows into the fray. The fire of these useless missiles reveals another six Wintercourt agents hovering over the mucky ground.

Levi  
“Khein, we’ve got your back!” Now, at least.

Levi whirls into a scything attack on the surrounding crowd of driders.

DM: @Levi  
Levi’s first blow severs the first drider straight down the middle. The next chops drow top from spider bottom. Levi just keeps on chopping, hewing down the next drider up. Three lie dead at the incubus’ feet.

Medomai  
Oh, this is shit. Medomai draws his dinky-ass crossbow and fires at the drider in front of him expecting about as much effect as the Wintercourt agent arrows on them.

DM  
Medomai could’ve placed a bet on that call. His crossbow bolts do next to nothing against the drider’s hard exoskeleton.

The air patrol continues to fire down in the mostly vain hopes of doing some damage. Scratch that, entirely vain.

Three remaining driders gang up on Levi, the clear threat here. They swing their maces. Which have as much effect as the arrows.

Khein  
Finally, it’s only been like six seconds, but still. Khein sets her fingers on the rune tiles and manipulates them for all the luck she’s worth.

DM  
A disembodied voice resounds through Khein’s mind: “Abraxas sees all, hears all, knows all. Such is his power.”

She feels her third eye burst open with true seeing. A spiraling beam of rainbow colors lances past her pointed ear and up the long tunnel.

The foot patrol spare the light a glance but turn immediately back to the fray. They fire off their fucking arrows which ends, yeah, exactly how it was destined to end.

Levi  
So, do we basically just like take out this entire patrol?

Medomai  
Half a patrol.

DM: @Levi, Medomai  
Basically, yeah. All the Wintercourt agents, and bats, just drop dead at your feet. From combat or despair or both.

Khein  
Khein rubs the back of her aching head. Too bad there’s no time to loot the bodies.


	54. Log 54

DM  
The bridge ends at a level landing, flat and even but for the slopes where ripples in the black blood below lap at the stone. A great stone gate, nearly twenty feet wide and at least as tall, is carved out of the giant cliff. Each door bears a hideous symbol of a demonic face surrounded by a coil of snakes and with two snake tails descending from the mouth. The entire cliffside itself continues this serpentine motif, with hundreds, perhaps thousands of stone-carved snakes winding out like entwined sunbursts from the door as far as the eye can see.

Continuing the ugly demon motif, four bipedal vulture-demons perch on particularly wide, carved serpent coils within 15 feet of the door’s entrance, while a single, eighteen-foot, four-armed claw demon stands directly before the doors. 

Much like a bouncer, the heavily natural-armored claw-hand demon regards Ruran, Al, Kwava, and patrol with a mixture of amusement and disdain while standing relatively motionless before the door.

Ruran  
Ruran clears their throat with a nervous cackle, “Ah, we were told to report directly to Allevrah about a disturbance in the magic at the portal?”

DM: @Ruran  
The vulture demons above caw in the silence.

The door opens behind the claw-hand demon. Nine Wintercourt agents file out from the beast’s left. Four drow priests wearing what Ruran recognizes as the (un)holy symbol of Abraxas around their necks, a demonic face encircled by a serpent with two snake tails descending from its mouth.

The soldiers say nothing. The priests, however, smile and speak as one, “Matron Allevrah awaits your report outside the inner sanctum. Please, follow us.”

Al  
Al suppresses a shudder, instead smiling back at the hivemind priests, “Lead on, then.”

DM  
The priests lead you down a long, straight hallway. Friezes of a strange part-snake, part-bird demon stare at you from the stone walls on either side, watching. The soldiers follow behind.

Tangled coils of softly glowing runes wind along the walls in dense patterns between the carvings, filling the hall with shadowy light. Double doors open at the hallway’s end.

The wide, spacious temple of the end is lit by runes constantly dancing along the walls of the room, bathing all with shifting purple lights. A much larger rune, circular and fifteen feet across, floats a foot above an altar of bloodstained gold at the far end of a wide, upraised pulpit. 

A circular flight of steps leads down from the front of the pulpit. Pillars carved to resemble coiling snakes support the cathedral ceiling a hundred feet above, and in alcoves along the walls stand immense stone statues of a snake-legged, bird-faced demon. Five vulture-demons cling to the pillars, chanting with low caws.

The four priests come to a stop directly upon the large pulpit. The soldiers move out from behind you into a semicircle at the edge of the steps. All thirteen turn to face what can only be the master glyph.

There stands a drow woman, chanting. Her chainmail shimmers with otherworldly power. A demonic shield hangs from one hip. A writhing, scaly whip hangs from the other. This can only be the one, the only, Matron Allevrah Azrinae.

She turns slowly, almost reluctantly from the master glyph to face you. Her brow furrows with irritation, “This had better be good.”

Ruran  
“Oh, it will,” Ruran promises. They fling their hand from their pocket, pointing their poppet straight at Allevrah, “Have some peace and quiet.”

The poppet’s stitch mouth opens. It inhales with a ghastly whisper.

At the same time, Ruran casts a quickened spell on the undead patrol, filling them with the might of the Shadow Plane, “Kill the demons!”

DM: @Ruran  
The empowered undead patrol throw themselves at the vrocks with a mindless roar.

Meanwhile, the poppet’s ghastly inhale rips at Allevrah’s throat. She throws her hands to her neck, pupil-less white eyes wide with shock and dawning horror. Ruran has stripped her voice away.

Al  
Al, already warded with stoneskin, casts a spell he’s been saving for just this moment, “Let’s get tongue-y with it!”

Al opens his mouth. His tongue elongates, lashing out into a whip of pure, crackling electricity. This isn’t even his final form.

He calls upon his modestly hidden demonic mark of Areshkagal, summoning a succubus demon to his aid.

DM  
A jagged rift tears through space and time within the temple of Abraxas. A familiar, rapier-wielding succubus flies out from the rift, taking in the room with a judgmental squint.

“What. The. Fuck,” says Qildra. Her eyes land on upon Al with his tongue of electricity lashing in figure eights in the air, “You? You’re the scion of Areshkagal?!...Fine.”

She turns her rapier and claw toward the Wintercourt agents with a slow, vengeant grin, “You’re mine, homewreckers.”

Five arrows fly between Ruran and Al. They thwack into the body of a priest. The first priest drops, dead.

Kwava reloads. There’ll be no healing from that one today.

The priests are up. One points an accusing finger at Ruran, “Be silent yourself!”

Which doesn’t get past Ruran’s drowish spell resistance. The next two priests whip out wands pointed at the group of you. Two searing balls of flame explode in your faces.

Kwava takes the full brunt of the flames, Ruran and Al are too drow-ishly spell resistant to feel anything but a slight tickle of heat.

As though in retaliation, Kwava fires on one of the wand-firing priests. They fall to the ground, lesson learned. Permanently.

Al  
Al roars into a rage, his tongue lashing rigid to thunderclap along with him. He falls upon Allevrah, sickles slashing and tongue whipping.

DM: @Al  
Allevrah’s armor deflects half of the sickle-strikes, but three slash red ribbons into her inken skin. Her armor is useless against Al’s lightning-tongue.

She screams in unnatural silence as it cracks through her. Smoke rises from her snow-white hair.

Ruran  
Ruran points their poppet from Allevrah to a priest. Its leathery body lights with gray flame, “Die.”

DM  
You can actually hear the screams of this priest as they fall to the ground, consumed by the deathly gray flames.

Allevrah, forced into melee, lashes at Al with her demon flail. And that’s a crit.

Her flail bashes through his pathetic defenses, its snake-like coils draining the life from him where they hit.

The remaining priest tries to silence Ruran with what may well be their final breath, “Shut up!”

The spell takes. A heavy, muffling weight bears down on Ruran’s tongue, Al’s, and even Kwava’s.

Not that the laconic Kwava particularly cares. His arrows sail as true as ever, knocking the life right out of the priest...which ends their spell.

Al  
Good. Now the last thing Allevrah hears will be our raging roars as the world-ending bastard dies. Al makes good on that by roaring as he falls again on the heavily armored high priestess.

DM: @Al  
Heavily armored, she is. Only a single slash makes it through Allevrah’s exceptional defense. That, and Al’s fucking lightning tongue.

She staggers back on her last legs. The heels of her boots click together. She vanishes, teleported from the room. You hear hastened footsteps echo down the snake-wall hall.

Ruran  
No. Allevrah’s not getting away. Ruran runs out after her.

DM: @Ruran  
Allevrah’s already at the other end of the hall, opening the outer doors. But no, yeah, Ruran still has a standard action.

Ruran: @DM  
Ruran screams down the hall, “DIE!”

DM: @Ruran  
Ruran’s scream thrums with power. It accelerates down the hall, building to an ear-piercing, bone-shattering, high-pitched shriek. The banshee scream slams into Allevrah’s back as solid as the temple walls.

The doors swing open. The killing wave crashes through Allevrah into the demon bouncer. Both stagger on their feet, Allevrah staggering into the demon’s back.

They fall to the dust. The vrocks within and without the temple vanish with avian shrieks.

The remnants of Ruran’s undead host fall still. Qildra flicks the last of the Wintercourt blood off her rapier and claw.

Al  
Al releases the lightning from his tongue and staggers out his rage. He shakes the sweat from out of his eyes, “Damn! DAMN! We actually fucking did it! We’re saving this bitch of an earth!”

He jogs over to the floating master glyph.

DM: @Al  
Al knows with certainty that this is the glyph that is calling the stars to fall upon Golarion. Liquid light seeps out from its shimmering form, the purple tendrils caressing.

Ruran  
Ruran stumbles back into the temple beside Al. They study the glyph, “How do we deactivate it?”

DM  
Ruran knows with certainty...that they can’t.

Ruran: @DM  
Oooh, fuck.

Al  
“What? What’s wrong?”

Ruran  
Their hoarse, tremulous voice cracks as Ruran speaks, “We can’t deactivate the glyph.”

The others--they couldn’t, they couldn’t have failed, could they?

\--/--

DM  
The dark tower before the glyph team stretches seventy feet across. Inhuman screams resound from its opened windows. Its doors are unlocked.

Khein  
Khein renews the group’s invisibility sphere.

Levi  
Levi nods, ready. They pick Khein up under one arm and Medomai under the other.

Medomai  
Medomai pushes the doors of the dark tower open as the incubus flies forward.

DM  
Stairs wind up the length of the tower, but you can simply fly up its hollow shaft to the single landing at the top. Blood leaks from the doorway, its puddles providing the room within with a carpet of liquid red splotches.

Three large cages stand to the south, shackles hanging from their bars. Along the north wall rests a tight grouping of lab tables covered with vials, bottles, and powders, their surfaces all seemingly stained with blood. The room is lit by the nauseating purple glow of a ten-foot-wide circular glyph gouged into the wall.

A drider screams in the middle of the room where it has collapsed, gradually dissolving into a pool of rancid black sludge. A nine-foot-tall demon with a six-armed torso and the scaled, lower body of a snake doubles over the drider. Their forked tongue flicks.

The large demon stabs six longswords through its cracking exoskeleton. The drider’s scream chokes off. Its eight legs twitch in death, continuing to dissolve from the jointed feet up.

A tall, gaunt and familiar outline steps out from the shadows.

???  
“Thanks, Trax. Fucking fleshwarp was really starting to grate my ears.”

DM: @???  
The marilith looks up. Directly at Khein, Levi, and Medomai, “We have company, Nolveniss.”

Khein  
Fuck. Well, if their stealth’s blown, there’s no point not to rage up. Khein looses her electric wail, shattering the invisibility sphere.

She flies up from under Levi’s arm, casting greater heroism on the incubus.

Levi  
Levi accepts Khein’s electric fury. They drop Medomai and fly at the marilith, scythe scything.

DM: @Levi  
Levi lays into Trax with a ferocity that can only be matched demon to demon. Their scythe shears through the marilith’s scaled hide. Even as Trax absorbs some of the damage, dark red blood sprays from their vicious wounds.

Medomai  
Nolveniss! Medomai’s fingers flex for a spell. He stops despite the full flush of the heat of battle.

Nolveniss had joined, no, rejoined Allevrah Azrinae. Nolveniss had to abandon his new station of power within House Vonnarc to rejoin the House he’d shamed. He had to have risked his own life to do so.

There’s only one reason he’d do that. He knew they were coming for Allevrah. He’s still pissed.

Medomai relaxes the spell from his fingers. He raises his hands, open and empty, “Nolveniss, I’m sorry we abandoned you.”

Dhuma  
Dhuma’s mouth twists into horrific, gaping rage, “No! No, no, no, no, no! Don’t think you can talk your way out of this one, matronfuckers. You left me, and now you get to die for it.”

Dhuma jabs an accusing finger at Medomai. Lightning springs from his hand.

DM  
As fast as Medomai dodges, the edge of the bolt zaps his mithral-armored side.

The marilith roars back at Levi. They swing all six swords with unleashed demonic fury. Levi parries four of the arms’ blows, but two vicious jabs stab through their defenses.

The marilith follows up with a lash of their crushing tail. Levi dexterously flaps out of the way.

Khein  
Despite the wreath of crackling electricity around her and her own wailing, Khein doesn’t miss the conversation between Levi and Nolveniss.

That’s...right. They’d left Nolveniss behind when he’d chosen House Vonnarc, but only because they’d left him to fend for himself during the takeover first.

Khein glances from Levi and the monstrously powerful demon to Medomai and Nolveniss. Her hands curl into shaking fists, but she closes her mouth, ending her buffing wail.

Khein sinks back down to the earth at Medomai’s side, “Nolveniss, we made a mistake in leaving you. No, we were wrong to do so. Please, forgive us.”

Levi  
Power and rage drains from Levi, leaving them blinking and startled before the marilith. Their scythe falters in their hands. A sheepish grin stretches across their face, “So, uh, maybe we got off on the wrong foot there. What do you say we start over? Hi, my name’s Levi, they/them.”

Medomai  
Medomai joins one raised hand with Khein’s, squeezing hers in thanks. He addresses Nolveniss once more, echoing Khein with un-smiling seriousness, “Please, forgive us.”

Dhuma  
Dhuma screams wordlessly, loosing chained lightning on both Medomai and Khein like a petulant, magically-empowered child.

DM  
So, the electric does almost nothing to Khein, but Medomai’s wracked with nerve-frying shock.

The marilith looks from their master to Levi, “I think not.”

The demon slashes at Levi with all six arms. Without Khein’s protections, Trax’s blades tear through the incubus’ flesh. Their blood goes flying, joining the sticky carpet across the lab floor.

Khein  
That is not good. Time to change tactics, “Nolveniss! Get a grip! Don’t you get it? We could kill you. You’re already dead. But we don’t want you dead. Don’t you remember? You’re OUR ally.”

Levi  
Levi spits out a mouthful of blood, “That’s right!”

They turn their scythe to a spinning wheel of total defense, praying to the demon lords it’ll be enough if this next plea doesn’t work.

Medomai  
“What does Allevrah have that we don’t? She forced you to debase yourself to get back into the house, didn’t she? We wouldn’t do that. She doesn’t respect you. We do. Because you’re our gods-damned coworker!”

Dhuma  
Dhuma points her finger. Her finger shakes. These world-saving fools were right. Allevrah’s a power-hungering bitch. There’s no way she’d ever see Nolveniss, much less Dhuma, as an equal.

Dhuma lowers her arm, “Trax?”

DM  
“Yes, Master Nolveniss?”

Dhuma: @DM  
“You’re dismissed. Thanks.”

DM: @Dhuma  
Trax’s brow furrows in confusion at the word of thanks. But, they shrug and peace out from the Mortal Realm.

Khein  
Praise the fucking lords. Khein gives Nolveniss a nod of thanks and rushes over to the glyph. Time to save the world.

Dhuma: @Khein  
“Here, lemme get that,” Dhuma sighs.

DM: @Dhuma  
The glyph flares. A bolt of sickly purple lightning crashes out through the lab ceiling.

\--/--

DM  
The master glyph flashes rapidly. A growing whine fills the air of the temple. A pulse of magical energy washes through the room, infusing Al, Ruran, Qildra, and Kwava with its light.

A disembodied voice resounds throughout the entire temple, “Now death comes to this fragile world. Let the deafened hear the thunder! Let the blind witness the final light! Let fear strike through the soul and rage boil blood from flesh. Thus, ever, is the end of all things—-the final lasting peace.”

But instead of such prophesied destruction, the glyph itself crumbles away into a pure rainbow of energy. Its light shoots out from the temple, streaking across the entire Land of Black Blood.

Al  
“We...WE DID IT!” shouts Al, leaping into the air, both fists pumping.

Ruran  
Ruran’s shock breaks off with a burst of wild cackles. They run to Kwava, throwing their arms around him, “Kiss me, Kwava!”

 

DM  
The elf’s face breaks into a joyously tearful smile. Kwava kisses his partner with his full, unburdened heart.

At the other end of the Land of Black Blood, the light of the rainbow pours in through the windows and new hole in the lab ceiling.

Khein  
Khein grabs Nolveniss’ hand and pulls her fellow half-drow over to Levi, “Take us up! Take us up!”

Levi  
Levi drops their scythe. They heft Khein under one arm, Nolveniss under the other, and soar up and out through the roof hole.

Dhuma  
“Woah!”

Medomai  
Medomai looks up after them, the smile returning to his face.

DM  
The cavern sky is radiant with every color of the rainbow. All across the Land of Black Blood, denizens both monstrous and sentient crawl out from the stones and holes to witness this never before seen phenomenon.

Khein  
“It’s...beautiful.”

Levi  
Strange, sure, but beautiful indeed.

Dhuma  
Dhuma looks on the strange, awesome sight in silence, a peaceful silence. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Medomai  
Two lines of tears stream from Medomai’s eyes over his shaking but genuine smile.

“We did, Mina,” he breathes. “We did it.”


End file.
